yf^^^^y^^<^  /tCi^^^ ^^jc.*^^  ^ 


CRITICAL    ESSAYS 


<      f 


IN  THE 
REPUBLIC  OF  LETTERS 

BY    W.     MACNEILE     DIXON 

M.A.,  LL.B.,  LITT.D. 

PROFESSOR    OF    THE    ENGLISH    LANGUAGE    AND 

LITERATURE    IN    MASON    COLLEGE 

BIRMINGHAM 


I 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

153-157    FIFTH    AVENUE 

1898 


.-** ;/:'. 


Edinburgh  :  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 


TO 

THE  REV.  JOHN  GWYNN,  D.D.,  D.C.L. 

REGIUS  PROFESSOR  OF  DIVINITY  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  DUBLIN 

WITH  THE  AFFECTIONATE  REGARD 

OF  THE  AUTHOR 


-V  '*'  o  '  *    ■" 

?^'J  »j>  «7  ♦}  ':>  O 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD,  ,  .  1 

THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH,  .  .  32 

THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES,  ,  .  .64- 

THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH,  .  .119 

THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL,        .  .  .  .166 

XaAeTTo.  TO.  KaXd,  .....      203 


I  have  to  acknowledge  the  kindness 
of  the  Proprietors  of  The  Quarterly 
and  Church  Quarterly  for  permission 
to  reprint  the  papers  in  this  volume 
which  have  already  appeared  in 
their  Reviews 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

The  king  is  dead:    the  great  peers  of  the  realm 
poetic  had  passed  away  before  him,  and  there  is  no 
head  found  worthy  of  the  consecrating  oil.^     The 
critical  search-parties  that  went  forth  throughout 
all  the  land  have  returned,  and  ^report  that  they 
have  failed  to  meet  with  a  Saul  who  stands  head 
and  shoulders  above  his  brethren.     Meanwhile  dis- 
affected persons  murmur,  and  hint  at  the  abolition 
of  the  monarchy.     Kingship  is  out  of  date,  and  we 
must  set  up  a  poetic  republic  as  we  have  set  up  a 
republic  of  polite  letters.     To  which  it  is  replied 
by  others,  that  Nature,  to  whom  we  have  still  to 
look  for  our  supply  of  poets,  goes  about  her  work 
in  a  way  that  renders  futile  a  revolution  with  such 
an  end  in  view.     It  is  said  that  she  produces  a  poet 
in  the  most  unlikely  spot,  in  the  midst  of  what 
appear  to  be  hopelessly  uncongenial  and  blighting 
circumstances,  and  at  periods  incalculable  even  by 
the  acute  physical  scientist,  who  knows  all  about 
her  movements  and  designs.      And  when   she  has 
1  Written  in  1893. 

A  I 


THfi  P'OETRr  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

produced  him  she  straightway  crowns  him ;  and 
despite  any  efforts  of  the  critics  to  discrown  him 
or  crown  another  in  his  place,  she  never  fails  in 
retaining  the  robe  and  sceptre  for  the  man  of 
her  own  choice.  And  the  moral  is,  that  it  is 
desirable  to  discover,  as  early  as  may  be  in  each 
case,  these  favourites  of  Nature,  and  to  set  the 
laurel  upon  their  temples ;  for  it  is  best  to  be  on 
the  side  of  Nature,  seeing  that  here  as  elsewhere 
she  is  invincible. 

However  these  things  be,  some  of  the  explorers 
of  these  recent  search-parties  are  angry  because 
there  is  no  giant  in  Israel,  and  the  poets  of  ordi- 
nary stature  have  been  mocked,  and  otherwise 
severely  handled.  It  is  undoubtedly  a  grievous 
thing  that  they  are  so  many,  and  yet  so  diminutive 
and  unimpressive  withal ;  and  the  fact  would  in 
the  eyes  of  the  desponding  be  significant  of  the 
degeneracy  of  the  age,  if  that  degeneracy  were  not, 
alas !  firmly  established.  The  minor  poet  has 
indeed  always  been  as  much  the  butt  of  ridicule 
as  the  major  poet  has  been  the  god — when  once 
his  divinity  is  discovered — in  whose  honour  temples 
are  built  and  incense-fires  kept  continually  burning. 
To  attempt  poetry,  and  to  attain  minor  poetry,  is 
the  unpardonable  sin  : — 

'  Mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  cli^  non  homines,  non  coucessere  columnae,' 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

There  would  be  small  cause,  however,  to  make  a 
present  quarrel  with  the  minor  poets,  were  it  not 
that  among  them  are  the  high-priests  of  culture, 
and  there  is  a  suspicion  abroad  that  the  evangel 
of  culture,  in  which  we  trusted,  shows  signs  of 
hardening  into  an  unexpansive  dogma — into  some 
creed  like  that  of  '  art  for  art's  sake,'  and  that  its 
apostles,  in  the  very  intensity  of  their  zeal  against 
Philistinism,  have  themselves  become  short  of  sisrht 
and  dull  of  hearing.  For  the  literature  that 
strengthens,  or  even  gladdens,  many  of  us  have 
been  out  of  tune,  and  have  given  ear  to  the  poets 
of  culture.  Their  bower  serves  as  a  retreat  from 
the  ugly  and  wearying  facts  of  life,  and  this 
although  their  consolations  are  oftentimes  with- 
out hope.  Nevertheless  it  is  a  pleasantly  situated 
bower.  The  air  is  delicate ;  the  moan  of  doves, 
and  song  of  nightingales,  and  ripple  and  gush  of 
rivulet  and  waterfall,  are  on  the  breeze,  and  the 
poet  himself  makes  sweet  diversion  for  us  on  his  lute 
— it  is  the  most  exquisite  of  artistic  performances. 
But  while  we  recline  at  ease  in  the  gardens  of 
Boccaccio,  the  plague  still  continues  to  rage  in 
the  city.  This  new  Alexandrian  school  will  not 
serve  the  needs  of  humanity.  It  will  not  do  to 
divorce  poetry  from  the  people,  to  allow  it  to 
become  the  possession  of  an  aristocratic  or  an 
exclusive    class.      In    Elizabethan    times,   and    at 

3 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

other  not  unremarkable  poetic  epochs,  the  poet  was 
a  man  among  men,  who  had  no  need  to  retire  into 
lifelong  seclusion  apart  from  his  fellows  to  pay 
court  to  his  muse,  and  it  was  to  the  man  in  the 
street  that  he  made  his  appeal.  Poetry  is  the 
democratic  art ;  it  will  not  do  to  leave  it  in  the 
hands  of  a  haughtily  exclusive  guild  of  artificers. 
And  for  another  reason  it  must  not  be  left  in 
their  hands.  Their  songs,  far  from  being  of 
Tyrtean  strain,  not  only  fail  to  rouse  to  war,  but 
they  even  console  in  defeat ;  and  such  music  is 
not  conducive  to  the  health  of  the  soul.  Too 
many  have  been  the  forces  at  work  in  the  present 
century  whose  resultant  has  powerfully  shaken  the 
natural  optimism  which  supports  the  human  race. 
Of  some  who  tried  courageously  enough  to  accom- 
modate themselves  to  the  new  economics,  not  a  few 
feel  that  they  have  taken  shelter  beneath  a  totter- 
ing wall,  for  of  the  new  economics  we  may  ask,  as 
of  the  new  creeds  of  Science,  '  Art  thou  fairer  than 
thy  many  brethren,  or  stronger  than  thy  fathers 
with  whom  they  sleep  ? '  But  the  pessimistic  tide 
has  run  strongly  in  our  days,  and  though  the 
creed  of  Pessimism  is  out  of  date,  we  are  still  in  a 
mood  of  discontent,  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  the 
futility  of  life.  To  encourage  this  sense  is  easy — 
to  reconcile  us,  make  us  friends  again  with  life, 
this  is  a  pressing  need.     We  need 

4 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

'  One  common  wave  of  thought  and  joy, 
Lifting"  mankind  again ' ; 

and  we  want  in  poetry  '  the  rhythms  of  a  courageous 
and  harmonious  life."  We  want  in  it  likewise  not  a 
beauty  which  may  be  discovered  by  '  a  certain  acute 
and  honourable  minority,'  but  a  beauty  more 
affluent  which  shall  illuminate  the  dull  tracts  of 
our  daily  journeying  with  an  unimagined  light,  so 
that  we  may  cross  the  threshold  of  the  coming 
century  with  a  buoyant,  not  with  a  listless  step. 

To  whom — if  we  accept  Mr.  Swinburne's  law, 
'  Nothing  which  leaves  us  depressed  is  a  true  work 
of  art ' — to  whom  are  we  to  look  for  these  rhythms, 
for  this  beauty  ?  For  the  ideal  City  of  the  Future, 
Plato's  suggestion  has  not  yet  lost  its  force.  An 
intolerance  of  a  certain  order  of  poets  is  to  be 
apprehended.  We  who  are  not  poets  may  yet 
have  reason  to  congratulate  ourselves  that  we  have 
declined  to  walk  without  due  caution  in  their 
narrow  footsteps,  for  we  anticipate  that  there 
come  evil  days  for  the  musicians  in  a  minor  key 
who  now  find  favour  amono;  us  : — 

'  We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow^ 

And  joy  was  never  sure^ 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow  ; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure  : 
And  love  grown  faint  and  fretful^ 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighsj  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure.' 

5 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

When  a  poet  who  writes  in  this  strain  presents 
himself  at  the  august  court  of  the  twentieth  century, 
it  may  hap  that  he  will  be  treated  as  Plato  recom- 
mended : — 

'When  one  of  these  makes  a  proposal  to  exhibit 
himself  and  his  poetry,  we  will  fall  down  and  worship 
him  as  a  sweet  and  holy  and  worshipful  being ;  but  we 
must  also  inform  him  that  there  is  no  place  for  such  as 
he  in  our  state — the  law  will  not  allow  them.  And  so, 
when  we  have  anointed  him  with  myrrh,  and  set  a 
garland  of  wool  upon  his  head,  we  shall  send  him  away 
to  another  city.  For  we  mean  to  employ  for  our  soul's 
health  the  rougher  and  severer  poet,  who  will  imitate 
the  style  of  the  virtuous  only,  and  will  follow  those 
models  which  we  prescribed  at  first  when  we  began 
the  education  of  our  soldiers.' 

But  the  future  will  be  sufficient  for  itself.  Mean- 
time it  is  out  of  place,  perhaps,  to  rail  at  the 
poetry  of  culture  until  some  other  and  better  wares 
are  offered  us.  In  literature,  as  in  life,  the  gifts  of 
fortune  are  to  be  received  with  thankfulness,  be 
they  small  or  great.  And  if  we  get  little  but  fine 
jewel-work  from  his  successors,  from  Arnold,  the 
first  poet  of  culture,  the  '  prophet  of  culture,'  as  he 
has  been  ironically  styled,  we  have  been  the  reci- 
pients of  a  truly  rich  gift ;  and  to  him  our  gratitude 
will  be  as  lasting  as  it  is  pure — to  him  who  was  the 
chief  poet  of  the  autumnal  season  of  this  century, 

6 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

the  time  of  the  falling  of  the  leaf  and  the  withering 
of  the  flower  of  faith. 

With  the  publication  of  The  Princess,  Alfred 
Tennyson  became  the  acknowledged  representative 
of  his  age  in  poetry.  But  it  is  the  Tennyson  of 
the  early  poems,  not  the  Tennyson  of  the  Idylls 
of  the  King,  who  represents  the  prevailing  tone, 
the  prevailing  opinions,  of  his  time.  In  his  later 
years  Tennyson  did  not  give  himself  openly  and 
freely  to  the  predominant  current  of  ideas ;  he 
held  back,  and  finally  his  influence  became  one 
making  against  the  predominant  current.  He 
came  to  represent  the  Conservative  party,  w^hich 
clung  to  its  cherished  beliefs  and  traditions ;  to 
what  w-e  may  call  the  Broad  Church  party,  which, 
while  it  acknowledged  the  authority  of  Science  in 
its  own  sphere  of  work,  and  the  general  truth  of 
its  teaching,  refused  to  see  in  that  teaching  any 
reason  for  the  abandonment  of  the  old  religious 
position.  Tennyson  came  to  be  the  spokesman  of 
a  section  that  was  not  the  progressive  section,  but 
opposed  to  it — which  believed  that  the  latter  had 
gone  too  far.  His  mental  attitude  was  that  of 
the  men  w^ho  held  that  if  the  old  faiths  were  to 
live  with  the  new  they  must  be  shown  to  be  in 
harmony ;  that  at  first  sight  they  did  not  seem 
likely  to  harmonise,  and  that  an  exercise  of  faith 
might  be  necessary — eventually  it  came  to  be  im- 

7 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

peratively  necessary — for  the  believer  in  the  creed 
of  Science  who  was  likewise  a  believer  in  the  creed 
of  the  Churches.  The  consideration  of  the  revela- 
tions made  by  Science  filled  him  at  times  with  mis- 
giving for  the  revelations  of  his  religion. 

Browning''s  was  quite  another  intellectual  temper. 
He  hastened  joyfully  to  embrace  truths  new  and 
old.  There  was  little  need  to  harmonise  new  with 
old ;  they  could  not  fail  to  be  in  harmony  if  both 
were  indeed  truths.  One  was  as  precious  as  the 
other,  and  whether  their  meeting-place  was  within 
human  sight  or  not  was  a  matter  of  little  moment. 

^  On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs,  in  the  heaven  the  perfect 
round,' 

Matthew  Arnold  is  by  contrast  the  representative 
poet  of  the  later  culture,  where  that  culture  parts 
company  with  the  old  beliefs,  feels  compelled  to  do 
so,  and  bids  them  a  tearful  farewell. 

If  a  critic  happens  to  share  the  opinions  to 
which  Tennyson  found  it  possible  to  remain  faith- 
ful, he  will  be  apt  to  think  of  Arnold's  poetical 
work  as  the  expression  of  a  philosophical  creed, 
and  as  such  to  speak  of  its  spiritual  weakness. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  critic  who  belongs  to  Arnold's 
own  school  of  thought,  in  matters  of  religion  and 
art,  will  incline  to  dwell  almost  exclusively  upon 
the  technical  excellence  of  his  art,  the  beauty  of 

8 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

its  severely  classic  simplicity,  the  delicacy  and 
purity  of  its  colour,  the  instinctive  grace  of  its 
rhythmic  movement,  its  happy  fidelity  in  rendering 
English  landscape.  As  typical  of  these  two  classes 
of  critics,  let  us  take  Mr.  Hutton  and  i\Ir.  Swin- 
burne. It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  Mr.  Hutton 
and  Mr.  Swinburne  both  express  regret — but  for 
very  different  reasons — that  Arnold's  poetry  should 
so  constantly  sound  the  note  of  dubiety  regarding 
things  spiritual  as  they  are  represented  in  the  creed 
of  Christendom.  Mr.  Hutton,  observing,  as  he 
could  not  easily  fail  to  observe,  the  air  of  sadness 
and  disquiet  betrayed  by  the  poet  in  poems  dealing 
with  the  loss  the  soul  has  sustained  in  the  removal 
of  its  chief  support  and  consolation,  finds  in  these 
poems  (using  the  words  of  Hazlitt)  '  the  sweetness, 
the  gravity,  the  strength,  the  beauty,  and  the 
languor  of  death."  Mr.  Swinburne,  too,  regrets 
that  Arnold  should  so  frequently  have  given  utter- 
ance to  the  pain  of  uncertainty  in  spiritual  things. 
'  This  alone  I  find  profitless  and  painful  in  his 
work,  this  occasional  habit  of  harking  back  and 
loitering  in  mind  among  the  sepulchres."'  The 
highest  significance  of  Matthew  Arnold's  poetry 
for  Mr.  Hutton  lies  in  its  confession  of  an  unsatis- 
fiable  spiritual  hunger ;  its  highest  significance  for 
Mr.  Swinburne  lies  in  its  classic  excellence  as  an 
art-product.     '  And  everywhere  is   the  one  ruling 

9 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

and  royal  quality  of  classic  work,  an  assured  and 
equal  excellence  of  touch.'     An  impartial  critic  will 
prefer   to   avoid    the    separation    made    here,   the 
separation  of  the  two  aspects  that  this,  in  common 
with    all   poetry,    presents  —  the    interest    of    the 
subject-matter,  and  the  interest  of  the  form.     He 
will  be  desirous  of  considering  it  without  unduly 
untwisting  the  composing  strands — without  either 
(on  the  one  hand)  too  loudly  lamenting  its  weakness 
as  a  moral  or  spiritual  force,  or  (on  the  other  hand) 
neo-lectincr  the    nerve  of  motive  and   the  nerve  of 
thouo^ht  which  are  its   real  distinction.       And  he 
will    specially    wish    to    avoid    the    latter    error, 
because   it    is    one    to   which    modern    criticism    is 
prone,   and   because   in    the    best   poetry,    in   the 
poetry  of  Sophocles,  of  Dante,  of  Shakespeare,  the 
form  is  not  the  chief  care  of  the  poet,  but  the 
thought  that  moulds  the  form,  the  something  that 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  the  artist,  who  is  merely  a 
finished  workman  in  technique. 

For  this  reason  not  Sohrah  and  Rustem,  not 
Balder  Dead,  nor  any  of  the  poems  in  the  classical 
manner  of  which  Arnold  was  the  advocate,  seem  to 
me  to  possess  the  same  interest — certainly  not  the 
same  significance — as  the  lyrics  and  elegiacs  into 
which  ran  the  stream  of  his  own  inner  life.  He 
was  a  poetic  artist  who  studied  in  the  classical 
school    and  with  consummate    success;  but  if   we 

10 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

wish  to  find  the  man  in  the  poetry,  it  is  not  to 
these  studies  from  the  antique  that  we  shall  turn. 
And  one  might  go  further  and  say  that  it  is  when 
most  himself  and  least  a  student  of  the  Greek  that 
even  in  these  poems  he  takes  us  captive. 

^  But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land. 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved. 
Rejoicing  through  the  hushed  Chorasmian  waste. 
Under  the  solitary  moon  :— he  flowed 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming  and  bright  and  large  :  then  sands  begin 
To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams. 
And  split  his  currents  ;  that  for  many  a  league 
The  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles — 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer — till  at  last 
The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 
His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new-bathed  stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea.' 

Is  there  not  suggested  here  a  pathos  other  than 
that  declared  ?  It  is  not  Oxus  only  that  is  a  '  foiled 
circuitous  wanderer ' ;  it  is  not  for  Oxus  alone  that 
there  waits  the  quiet  of  a  'home  of  waters,' 
tranquil,  infinite.  Who  wdll  fail  to  recognise  the 
prevailing  mood  of  the  poet  who  held  that  the 
secret  of  life  was  peace,  not  joy  ? 

The  biography   of  Dr.    Arnold,  of  Rugby,  im- 

II 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

presses  itself  upon  the  reader  not  only  as  the  life- 
record  of  a  scholar  and  noble  gentleman  but  also 
of  a  thinker,  before  whose  clearness  of  vision  and 
steadiness  of  aim  the  intellectual  difficulties  of  his 
time  seemed  to  vanish  away.  England  has  pos- 
sessed among  her  family  of  brilliant  sons  during 
the  present  century  many  of  more  commanding 
genius  and  more  splendid  gifts ;  perhaps  none 
whose  intellectual  sanity  more  nearly  approached 
the  ideal,  or  whose  serene  cheerfulness  was  so 
admirable.  Upon  his  mind  the  pressure  of  pro- 
blems which  disturbed  his  contemporaries  seemed 
to  have  no  bewildering  effect,  for,  as  he  himself 
said,  in  presence  of  an  insoluble  difficulty  his  mind 
reposed  as  tranquilly  as  in  possession  of  a  demon- 
strated truth.  His  moral  life  was  at  no  hour 
troubled  by  the  suspicion  that  the  struggle  cannot 
avail  us,  that  there  is  some  incurable  disease  which 
baffles,  and  will  ever  continue  to  baffle,  the  most 
cunning  physicians :  a  germ  of  evil,  the  source  of 
all  irremediable  disorders  in  the  universe  as  it 
exists.  Or  if,  indeed,  the  spectres  of  the  mind  did 
trouble  him,  they  had  no  power  over  his  spirit  to 
sap  its  enthusiasm. 

'  If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 
Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet^ 
Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 
Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 

12 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Nothing — to  us  thou  wast  still 
Cheerful  and  helpful  and  firm  ! 
Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given 
Many  to  save  with  thyself  ; 
And  at  the  end  of  the  day, 
O  faithful  Shepherd,  to  come 
Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand.' 

To  the  son  of  such  a  father,  the  temperament 
that  makes  the  student  of  life  came  by  right  of 
birth.  To  live  life  and  to  study  it  are  not  identi- 
cal processes :  the  living  are  many,  the  students  of 
life  are  few,  and  it  is  not  perhaps  too  much  to 
say  that  they  are  of  the  elect  of  Nature,  and  that 
no  man  can  be  rendered  free  of  that  company  any 
more  than  of  the  company  of  the  poets  save  by 
being  born  to  it :  nascHur  non  Jit.  For  every  man, 
as  for  every  student  of  life,  there  are  centres  round 
which  his  sympathies  cluster;  a  natural  bent  of 
mind  is  shown  by  the  objects  which  attract  and 
retain  sympathetic  attention,  and  the  natural 
strength  of  a  mind  displays  itself  best  at  work 
when  concerned  with  these  objects.  To  inquire 
of  any  man,  what  are  his  interests  ?  is  the  shortest 
way  to  an  estimate  of  the  man.  To  inquire  of  a 
poet,  what  are  his  interests,  his  sympathies  ?  is 
equally  legitimate  and  efficacious  as  preliminary  to 
the  foundation  of  any  judgment  of  him,  literary  or 
social.  Only,  in  the  latter  case,  the  answer  cannot 
(as  it  may  often  in  the  former)  be  given  in  a  word ; 

13 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

for  the  sympathies  of  the  poet  are  likely  to  be  so 
much  wider,  and  at  the  same  time  so  much  more 
delicate,  that  a  lengthened  inquiry  has  to  be  in- 
stituted, and  a  more  detailed  chart  drawn  compiled 
from  a  longer  series  of  observations  and  more  care- 
ful soundings.  In  the  drawing  out  of  such  a  chart 
in  the  present  case,  Arnold's  prose  must  at  times  be 
read  side  by  side  with  his  poetry. 

In  the  forefront  of  Matthew  Arnold's  sympathies 
stands,  as  it  stood  in  the  forefront  of  the  sympathies 
of  the  great  Rugby  schoolmaster  and  of  nearly  all 
the  great  makers  of  English  literature,  his  passion 
for  a  better  practice  of  life,  a  more  widely  diffused 
rightness  of  conduct,  founded  upon  self-knowledge 
and  self-control.  '  A  better  practice  of  life  "* — yes, 
surely ;  but  to  get  at  once  at  the  root-principle, 
it  is  not  in  any  crusade  against  vices,  general  or 
particular,  that  the  amelioration  of  social  conditions 
is  to  be  sought,  but  by  the  acquisition  on  the  part 
of  each  of  a  purified  vision  and  a  cleansed  judgment. 

'  It  is  of  little  moment,'  we  can  imagine  him  say- 
ing— using  the  words  of  Emerson,  whose  voice  was 
for  Arnold  (he  tells  us)  in  his  Oxford  days,  '  a  clear 
and  pure  voice  which,  for  my  ear  at  any  rate, 
brought  a  strain  as  new  and  moving  and  unforget- 
table as  the  strain  of  Newman  or  Carlyle  or  Goethe,' 
— '  It  is  of  little  moment,'  we  can  imagine  him  saying 
with  Emerson,  '  that  one  or  two  or  twenty  errors  of 

14 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

our  social  system  be  corrected,  but  of  much  that  the 
man  be  in  his  senses.  Society  gains  nothing  whilst 
a  man,  not  himself  renovated,  attempts  to  renovate 
things  round  him ;  he  has  become  tediously  good 
in  some  particular,  but  negligent  or  narrow  in  the 
rest,  and  hypocrisy  and  vanity  are  often  the  disgust- 
ing result/  Arnold's  enthusiasm  for  reform  is  not  of 
the  popular  order.  With  him  the  first  question  is. 
How  of  your  own  temper  ? — is  it  serene,  under  com- 
plete control  ?  How  of  your  own  judgment  ? — is  it 
capable  of  right  decision  ?  are  there  no  lurking 
desires  or  bias  which  hamper  its  efficiency,  its  pre- 
cision? The  modern  crusaders  who  ride  forth  in  the 
panoply  of  war  to  do  battle  for  a  religious  or  social 
cause,  raise  such  whirlwinds  of  dust  that  they  obscure 
the  issues  at  stake,  and  the  field  on  which  they  must 
be  tried — and  that  field  is  already  obscure  with  a 
darkness  that  may  be  felt : — 

'  We  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flighty 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. ' 

Arnold's  moral  intensity  is  the  more  remarkable  as 
the  dogmatic  support  that  morals  have  had  in  the 
past  is  no  longer  any  support  for  him,  but — as  one 
of  Spinoza's  propositions  puts  it,  in  words  which 
might  slip  with  perfect  aptness  into  one  of  Arnold's 
own  essays — '  even  if  we  did  not  know  that  our  mind 

15 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

is  eternal,  we  should  still  consider  as  of  primary 
importance  piety  and  religion,  and  generally  all 
thincrs  which  we  have  shown  to  be  attributable  to 
courage  and  hiffh-mindedness.'  It  is  of  vital  moment 
that  the  man  be  in  his  senses  ;  this  serves  as  the 
keystone  to  the  philosophy  of  conduct  built  up  for 
himself  and  for  all  who  care  to  join  with  him  in  the 
effort  to  construct  anew  a  dwelling  for  the  heart 
and  spirit  left  houseless  by  the  ruin  of  the  home  of 
its  ancestral  traditions. 

This  moral  intensity,  which  is  in  some  special 
degree  the  birthright  of  English  authors,  organises 
and  directs  the  search  for  ideas  which  shall  be 
applicable  to  conduct,  available  for  life.  Facts  or 
ideas  which  had  no  direct  bearing  upon  action, 
which  were  incapable  (in  his  own  phrase)  of  any 
immediate  '  relation  with  our  sense  for  conduct  or 
our  sense  for  beauty,"  for  such  facts  or  ideas  he  did 
not  care,  nor  greatly  wish  to  cultivate  any  apprecia- 
tion. Hence  it  was  that  only  that  side  of  philosophy 
interested  him  which  looked  towards  ethics,  only 
that  side  of  science  interested  him  of  which  the 
facts  were  of  incontrovertible  social  or  moral  service. 
Towards  speculative  philosophy,  as  towards  purely 
abstract  science,  he  preserved  an  attitude  of  lofty 
indifference,  now  and  then  exchanged  for  that  of  a 
thinly  veiled  ironical  contempt.  Here  lies  the  true 
secret  of  Spinoza's  attraction  for  him,  not  easily 

l6 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

missed  by  the  reader  of  Arnold  who  has  even  a  super- 
ficial acquaintance  with  the  work  of  the  great  Jewish 
thinker.  Spinoza  cuts  short  the  purely  speculative 
part  of  his  philosophy,  compresses  the  metaphysical 
inquiry  into  brief  space,  and  lays  the  emphasis, 
the  leal  stress,  on  his  ethical  deductions,  giving 
to  the  whole  system  the  title  '  Ethics.'  This 
fact,  and  the  fact  that  Spinoza's  ethics  are 
neither  more  nor  less  than  the  ethics  of  Stoicism, 
after  the  pattern  of  whose  'wise  man"*  (o  ao(f)6<;) 
Arnold  desired  to  form  himself;  these,  to  which  we 
may  add  the  admiration  of  a  disciple  for  a  master, 
in  that  the  Tractatus  Theologico-PoUticus  was  the 
first  w^ork  to  apply  the  principles  of  rationalistic 
interpretation  to  the  Jewish  Scriptures — these  are 
the  sufficient  reasons  for  the  elevation  of  Spinoza 
by  Arnold  to  the  supreme  seat  among  philosophers. 
The  canonisation  is  in  the  characteristic  dog-matic 
vein.  '  The  lonely  precursor  of  German  philosophy, 
he  still  shines  when  the  light  of  his  successors  is 
fading  away  ;  they  had  celebrity,  Spinoza  has  fame.' 
In  the  judgment  of  one  who  cherished  this  slight 
respect  for  the  pure  idea,  we  may  anticipate  that  it 
will  go  hard  with  Plato,  and  the  verdict  is  a  verifi- 
cation of  our  conjecture.  Here  is  a  quotation  made 
with  full  approbation  from  Joubert : — '  Plato  loses 
himself  in  the  void,  but  one  sees  the  play  of  his 
wings,  one  hears  their  rustle.  ...  It  is  good  to 
B  17 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

breathe  his  air,  but  not  to  live  upon  him.'  For  the 
same  reason  Arnold  was  never  in  touch  with  Shelley, 
that  brilliant  transgressor  into  the  field  of  pure 
abstractions.  Shelley  too  was  in  the  void  (the  figure 
is  borrowed  from  Joubert's),  'a  beautiful  and  in- 
effectual angel  beating  in  the  void  his  luminous 
wings  in  vain.'  Or  again,  Marcus  Aurelius,  had  he 
known  the  Christian  writings,  would  have  '  found  in 
the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  which  has  leavened  Christen- 
dom so  powerfully,  too  much  Greek  metaphysics, 
too  much  gliosis ' ;  and  we  may  assume  that  the 
real  worth  of  the  reflections  of  the  Roman  Emperor 
lies  in  their  practical  efficacy,  in  their  richness  of 
suggestion  for  the  government  of  daily  life.  The 
utilitarian  spirit  which  has  gone  so  far  to  determine 
the  English  racial  type,  which  has  dominated  the 
counsels  political,  religious,  and  social  of  the  nation, 
and  made  the  Englishman  the  most  successful 
practical  man  of  affairs  the  world  has  ever  seen, 
has,  nevertheless,  severely  circumscribed  the  sphere 
of  his  mental  energy.  It  has  denied  to  the  race,  as 
it  denied  to  the  Roman,  any  philosopher  of  the  first 
rank ;  while  in  Berkeley  despised  Ireland  was  the 
mother  of  a  son  who  takes  rank  with  Plato  as  a 
primate  in  the  hierarchy  of  thought  as  well  as  a 
master  of  style. 

'  All  good  poetry,  all  good  literature,  is  a  criticism 
of  life,'  said  Arnold  ;  and  it  is  true  of  his  own  poetry 

i8 


THE  POETRY  OF  xMATTHEW  ARNOLD 

that  it  is  such.  Whether  there  may  or  may  not  be 
good  literature  other  than  this  we  need  not  stay  to 
question.  The  poetry  of  Matthew  Arnold,  genuine 
poetry,  is  a  criticism  of  life.  Take  as  typical 
perhaps  the  most  perfect  of  his  poems,  the  lyric 
To  Marguerite^  beginning 

'Yes  !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled.' 

With  what  fidelity  to  human  emotion  does  he  here 
express  that  sense  of  solitariness  that  accompanies 
individuality,  with  what  pathos  invest  it,  with  what 
subtle  beauty  shape  it  to  a  '  lyrical  cry ' !  But 
critical  it  is,  nevertheless ;  a  delineation  of  the 
conditions  of  life,  a  judgment  upon  them. 

'  Who  ordered  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be^  as  soon  as  kindled^  cooled? 
A\'ho  renders  vain  their  deep  desire  } — 
A  God,  a  God,  their  severance  ruled  ! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea.' 

To  the  critic  the  universe  presents  itself  as 
a  problem,  or  a  series  of  problems ;  and  as  long 
as  he  can  look  on  them  impersonally,  as  he 
might  on  a  proposition  in  the  pure  mathematics, 
he  may  exercise  his  intellect  without  feeling  that 
his  will  is  in  any  degree  strengthened  or  im- 
paired, his  sorrows  deepened,  or  the  fountains  of 
his  joy  dried  up.  But  the  critic  who  joins  to 
his  critical  faculty  the   temperament  of  the  poet 

19 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

is  in  no  such  happy  case.  He  hangs  upon 
the  answers  which  are  returned  to  his  anxious 
questionings  as  upon  words  which,  issuing  from  a 
final  tribunal,  make  for  life  or  death.  Born  into  a 
critical  period  which  had  few  fresh  vital  forces  to 
arouse  or  sustain  it,  Arnold,  while  he  preserved  his 
zeal  for  high  moral  standards,  became  the  prey  of 
an  unquiet  mind.  The  restless  century  of  his  birth 
transformed  him,  sensitive  as  he  was,  too  sensitive 
to  remain  unimpressed  by  it.  Had  he  been  less  of 
a  poet  he  might  have  escaped  its  influence ;  but  the 
prevailing  scepticism  of  the  age,  the  atmosphere  of 
doubt,  of  uncertainty,  of  anxiety,  of  fever,  took 
from  him  the  natural  self-sufficingness,  the  inner 
dependence,  which  of  all  the  gifts  of  health  he  felt 
to  be  the  most  precious.  And  throughout  his 
poetry,  expressive  as  it  is  of  the  longing  for  the 
spirit  of  the  Greek  life,  a  cheerful  '  Stoic  Epicurean 
acceptance  "*  of  things  as  they  were,  and  a  real  delight 
in  the  environment  thus  acquiesced  in,  with  all  its 
longing  for  the  spirit  that  was  never  sick  or  sorry — 
throughout  his  poetry  there  are  few  indications  of 
the  attainment  of  that  serener  air.  When  the  note 
of  its  profoundest  conviction  falls  upon  our  ears,  it 
has  far  other  sound  : — 

'  Ah  love,  let  us  be  true 
To  one  another,  for  the  world  which  seems 
To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
20 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Hath  really  neither  joy^  nor  love^  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain, 
And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight. 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night.' 

In  some  sense  a  Greek  born  out  of  due  season, 
Arnold  was  yet  far  separated  from  the  Greek 
temper.  May  not  a  student  go  further  and  say 
that  the  scholars  who  have  discovered  the  classic 
tone  in  his  poetry  have  been  misled  by  the  classic 
cast,  the  simplicity,  of  its  diction,  into  the  belief 
that  his  kinship  with  the  Greek  is  a  close  and  vital 
one  ?  The  kinship  is,  I  think,  in  reality  superficial 
and  slight.  What  were  the  motives  of  the  poetry 
of  the  Attic  stage,  taking  it  as  representative  of 
Greek  poetry  in  general  ?  There  is  nothing  more 
distinctly  marked  in  vEschylus,  in  Sophocles,  or  in 
Euripides,  than  the  simplicity  and  directness  of  the 
central  motive,  and  the  absence  of  secondary 
motives.  There  is  nothing  more  characteristic  of 
Arnold's  poetry,  as  of  all  modern  poetry,  than  the 
complexity  of  its  motive — it  is  the  battle-ground  of 
varied  and  conflicting  emotions,  thoughts,  passions. 
The  analysis  of  the  Weltschmerz,  the  world-pain 
which  broods  over  modern  Hfe,  and  throws  it  into 
shadow,  beside  which  the  Greek  life  is  bright  with 
sunshine,  this  analysis  is  altogether  foreign  to 
classic  art.  Take  another  point.  Arnold  turns  to 
Nature  for  a  season  of  consolation.     In  her  dispas- 

21 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

sionate  calm  he  finds  an  anodyne  for  the  hurrying 
fever  of  the  soul — a  conception  so  modern  as  to  be 
almost  new  to  ourselves,  and  one  which  never 
crossed  the  mind  of  a  Greek  poet,  to  whom  Nature 
(at  most)  supplies  the  landscape  in  his  background 
— a  simple  and  slightly  sketched  landscape,  while  as 
in  real  life  the  figures  of  men  occupy  and  animate 
the  foreground. 

One  idea,  however,  a  central  idea  in  the  developed 
philosophy  we  owe  to  Greece,  Arnold  seems  to 
make  his  own.  In  his  revolt  from  the  intense  indi- 
vidualism of  modern  ethics,  in  his  desire  to  render 
up  his  own  private,  partial,  and  narrow  life  for  the 
universal,  wide,  and  elemental  movement  of  the 
whole,  to  receive  the  spirit  and  join  in  the  order  of 
the  Cosmos,  to  enter  thus  into  the  great  harmonic 
progression  of  the  living  All,  which  is  the  interpre- 
tation of  the  maxim  ^rjv  Kara  (pvaiv — here  he  is 
more  of  a  Greek  thinker  than  elsewhere  : — 

'  "Ah,  once  more/'  I  cried,  "ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew  ; 
Still,  still  let  me  as  I  gaze  upon  you 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you  ! " 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven. 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the  rustling  night  air  came  the  answer, 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are  ?     Live  as  they." 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 

22 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement^  sympathy. 

"And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shinmg. 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silvered  roll ; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul."  ' 

A  critic  of  life,  he  could  not  fail  to  recognise  its 
pathos,  and  the  sense  of  its  pathos  intensified  the 
sympathy  with  which  as  fellow-suiFerer  he  thought 
of  those  to  whom  the  same  dark   suspicions  had 
come  home,  and  the  same  ague  of  the  mind  with 
its   alternate    chills    and    fever    had    been    a    close 
companion ;  and  especially  did  his  heart  go  out  to 
those  fugitives  from  life  who,   no    longer  able    to 
endure  the    world^s    tempestuous    and    treacherous 
weather,  had  sought  refuge  in  the  eternal  haven  of 
death,  or  in  some  unvisited  bay  of  isolated  seclusion. 
It  is  impossible  during  a  distracted  youth  to  look 
forward  to  age  and  think  it  a  blessing,  as  Sophocles 
thought     it.      Age,   which    the   'singer   of  sweet 
Colonus*    congratulated    himself    upon    reaching, 
because  it  delivered  him  from  the  impatient  passions 
that  agitate  early  life,  carrying  it  hither  and  thither 
without  fixity  of  purpose— in  age  Arnold  puts  no 
confidence.     To  grow  old  is 

'  To  spend  long  days 
And  not  once  feel  that  we  were  ever  young.' 

He  anticipates  that  when  youth  is  past,  its  hurry- 

23 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

ing  fever,  as  he  looks  back  upon  it,  will  seem 
generous  fire,  and  he  will  awake  to  the  conviction 
that  one  thing  only  has  been  given 

^To  youth  and  age  in  common — discontent.' 

The  want  of  accord,  the  estrangement  between  mind 
and  soul,  has  been  the  experience  of  some  of  the 
rarest  and  loveliest  characters  whose  birth-lot  had 
fallen  in  untoward  places ;  and  with  them  Arnold 
felt  himself  bound  by  indissoluble  and  sacred  links 
of  moral  and  intellectual  kinship.  A  great  part  of 
his  poetry  is  occupied  with  setting  forth  in  his  own 
person,  or  in  the  persons  of  these  brethren  in  spirit, 
as  in  Ohermann  or  The  Sick  King  at  Bokhai'a,  the 
various  phases  of  the  sad  estate  in  which  the 
soul — 

'  A  wanderer  between  two  worlds — one  dead^ 
The  other  powerless  to  be  born ' — 

is  never  quite  possessed.  In  such  estate  the  pur- 
suits of  the  world,  the  acquisition  of  power,  the 
happiness  of  love,  are  adjudged  vain  by  one 

'  Who  needs  not  love  and  power  to  know 
Love  transient^  power  an  unreal  show.' 

The  setting  forth  of  this  mood  in  the  poetry  of 
Matthew  Arnold  is  so  elaborate  and  careful,  so 
marked  by  precision,  that  it  will  be  preserved  and 

24 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

studied  as  a  permanent  record  of  the  reign  in  this 
century  of  a  distinctive  spirit — the  poetry  of 
imaginative  and  spiritual  regret. 

The  strain  is  one  which  could  not  in  the  nature 
of  things  be  heard  in  classic  poetry  with  the 
same  piercing  clearness  and  pathetic  power.  The 
imperative  questions  respecting  his  destiny  and 
duties  put  with  ever  fresh  insistence  to  each  new 
arrival  on  the  world"'s  stage,  have  a  vastly  more 
incisive  force  when  they  come  to  one  who  has  dwelt 
for  a  season  in  restful  quiet  under  the  protecting 
wings  of  a  revealed  religion,  and  rudely  awaken 
him  from  the  sense  of  an  everlasting  security. 
Neither  to  Greek  nor  to  Roman,  whose  gods  were 
made  in  the  likeness  of  men,  and  whose  hopes  foi; 
the  future  were  as  dim  as  the  shadow-land  the  poets 
feigned  for  the  ghosts  of  the  departed,  did  the 
spiritual  questions  come  with  such  power  to  wound 
as  when  for  the  child  of  a  Christian  race  they  bring 
in  their  train  an  inextinguishable  regret  for  a 
beautiful  and  lost  faith,  and  a  yearning  after  the 
sv;eet  yet  passionate  summons  to  an  ideal  of  life  of 
which  that  faith  was  the  fostering  parent.  But 
although  in  the  life  of  the  modern  world  there  was 
no  task  which  a  spirit  such  as  Arnold's  could  take 
upon  it  with  genuine  enthusiasm,  to  escape  from  the 
life  of  '  the  madman  or  the  slave '  some  effort  was 
imperative.      The   question   comes    to    be    asked, 

25 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

What  is  to  take  the  place  of  the  sustaining  faith 
that  is  gone  ?  The  question  is  answered,  directly 
in  his  prose,  touched  with  emotion  in  his  verse. 
The  Best  may  indeed  be  denied  him;  'the  joyful 
emotion  to  make  moral  action  perfect '  is  no  longer 
possible ;  it  can  be  reached  only  by  rare  souls  :  but 
the  'Second  Best,'  an  impulse  relatively  inferior 
indeed  but  nevertheless  sustaining,  may  be  his — 

'  All  impulse  from  the  distance 
Of  liis  deepest,  best  existence 
To  the  words  Hope,  Light,  Persistence 
Strongly  sets  and  truly  burns.' 

Thus  bracing  ourselves  to  endure  we  may  renew 
the  battle,  and  as  while  the  Palladium  stood  Troy 
could  not  fall,  so  with  us  whose  Palladium  is  the 
soul : — 

'  Then  we  shall  rust  in  shade  or  shine  in  strife. 
And  fluctuate  'twixt  blind  hopes  and  blind  despairs, 
And  fancy  that  we  put  forth  all  our  life. 
And  never  know  how  with  the  soul  it  fares. 

Still  doth  the  soul  from  its  lone  fastness  high. 
Upon  our  life  a  ruling  effluence  send. 
And  when  it  fails,  fight  as  we  will,  we  die  ; 
And  while  it  lasts,  we  cannot  wholly  end.' 

This  is  the  poetic  statement  of  the  ethics  of  a 
humanised  Stoicism.  And  it  is  to  the  Stoic  philo- 
sophers and  to  the  Stoic  code  that  the  thinker 
whose  ethical  fervour  has  not  suffered  eclipse,  has 

26 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

survived  the  parting  from  a  dogmatic  creed,  and 
whose  loss  of  a  divinely  revealed  religion  only 
intensifies  his  longing  for  a  high-pitched  scheme 
of  conduct — it  is  to  Seneca,  to  Epictetus,  and  to 
Marcus  Aurelius,  of  all  the  philosophers  the  nearest 
in  spirit  to  the  Christian  saints,  that  he  naturally 
turns.  Of  the  systems  that  claim  no  supernatural 
sanction,  Stoicism  is  the  nearest  akin  to  Christianity. 
Its  appeal  to  Arnold  was  necessarily  powerful ;  and 
]\Iarcus  Aurelius  is  first  favourite  because  he  supplies 
something  of  that  '  very  sentiment  whence  Christian 
morality  draws  its  best  power.'  Stoic  morals  touched 
with  sentiment  will  go  far  to  support  the  traveller 
through  the  weary  ways  of  life ;  and  for  its  pains 
he  may  find  also  certain  consolations,  remedies, 
anodynes.  Not  that  any  of  these  will  supply  the 
glow,  the  sense  of  security,  the  holy  joy  of  the 
saint,  but  they  will  serve  to  lift  heart  and  mind 
into  a  serener  sphere  of  existence.  These  consola- 
tions and  remedies  for  the  pains  of  life  do  not  con- 
sist in  passionate  effort  such  as  that  which  Browning 
counsels : — 

'  Then  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough. 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  ! 
Be  our  joy  three  parts  pain  ! 
Strive^  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  ; 
Learn^  nor  account  the  pang  ;  dare^  never  grudge  the  throe  ! ' 

Nor  are  they  to  be  experienced,  as  with  Tennyson, 

27 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

in  the  contemplation  of  a  blessed  far-off  consum- 
mation towards  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 
Arnold  felt  that  these  consolations  and  remedies 
were  breathed  from  the  dispassionate  calm,  the 
orderly  perfection  and  loveliness  of  Nature,  that 
they  entered  and  for  a  little  time  gave  ease  to  the 
heart  from  the  contemplation  of  the  highest  reaches 
of  human  art,  and  that  they  were  abundantly  pre- 
sent in  the  deliverance  of  his  own  soul  in  his  poetry. 
Various  has  been  the  teaching  of  the  prophets  of 
the  century  :  Carlyle's,  a  fire-eyed  defiance  of  the 
'  Everlasting  No,'  and  a  devotion  to  the  work  near- 
est one's  hand  ;  George  Eliot's,  a  determined  bracing 
of  the  moral  sinews  though  without  hope  or  joy  ; 
Arnold's,  that  consolation  may  be  derived  from 
Nature,  from  beauty,  and  from  art.  And  the  sub- 
jects of  his  own  poetry  are  thus  determined.  They 
are  such  as  in  poetic  treatment  will  best  reheve  his 
own  overstrained  feelings,  such  as  will  'ease  his 
wound's  imperious  anguish.'  Thus  it  comes  that, 
take  what  form  they  may,  his  poems  are  transcripts 
of  his  own  emotional  moods.  Throughout  his 
poetry — to  recall  his  own  fine  phrase  spoken  of 
Byron,  he  bears  '  the  pageant  of  his  bleeding  heart.' 
To  escape  from  the  enfeebling  mood,  he  turns 
to  Nature.  Take  this  from  Empedodes  on  Etna, 
when  he  passes  from  critical  efforts  to  appraise  and 
weigh  the  value  and  the  issues  of  existence,  to  bathe 

28 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

his  spirit  in  divine  light  and  air,  in  the  wells  of 
sovereign  and  unceasing  beauty  : — 

'  Far,  far  from  here^ 
Tlie  Adriatic  breaks  in  a  warm  bay 
Among  tlie  green  Illyrian  hills  ;  and  there 
The  sunshine  in  the  happy  glens  is  fair. 
And  by  the  sea,  and  in  the  brakes 
The  grass  is  cool,  the  sea-side  air 
Buoyant  and  fresh,  the  mountain  flowers 
More  sweet  and  virginal  than  ours.' 

Of  the  class  of  poems  in  which  he  turns  to  Nature 
for  consolation,  Thyrsis  will  serve  as  the  best 
example.  Here  the  elegiac  strain  softly  dies  away 
into  the  tender  sweetness  of  the  soothing  music 
that  celebrates  some  morn  in  early  June  before  the 
roses  and  the  longest  day ;  or  the  high  midsummer 
pomps,  the  roses  that  shine  afar  down  the  alleys,  the 
lattices  jasmine-muffled  : — 

*■  So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er, 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day — 
When  garden-walks  and  all  the  grassy  floor 

\Vith  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May 

And  chestnut  flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry 
From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden-trees 
Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze  : 
The  bloom  is  gone  and  with  the  bloom  go  I. 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Soon  will  the  high  midsummer  pomps  come  on. 

Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell. 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 

29 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Sweet  William  with  his  homely  cottage  smell. 

And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow  . 
Roses  that  down  the  valleys  shine  afar, 

And  open  jasmine-muffled  lattices_5 
And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden-trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening  star. ' 

Arnold's  gospel  according  to  Nature  is  not 
Wordsworth's.  While  both  poets  are  lovers  of 
Nature,  and  join  in  her  matins  and  vespers,  her 
litanies,  her  festivals  of  spring  and  summer,  they 
worship  her  each  in  a  different  spirit.  In  no  poem 
of  Arnold's  is  to  be  heard  the  pure  note  of  joy ;  he 
is  the  poet  of  a  nation's  elegiac  mood.  The  con- 
solations of  Nature  that  are  to  him  so  soothing,  so 
indispensable,  are  the  whispers  of  her  peace,  the 
hushing  effluence  of  her  calm  ;  while  to  Wordsworth 
Nature  is  the  source  of  rapture,  of  passionate  delight, 
of  inexpressible  thrills  of  j oyous  ecstasy.  To  Arnold 
she  is  the  consoling  mother  whose  gracious  counten- 
ance 4nd  winning  sympathy  soothes,  steals  away 
the  sharpness  of  his  pain.  To  Wordsworth  she  is 
much  more  than  this :  his  teacher,  his  constant 
companion,  sharer  and  source  of  joy  as  well  as 
friend.  In  the  one  case  we  have  palliative  remedies 
for  the  fever  of  the  mind  ;  in  the  other  a  power  of 
renovation  and  a  stimulus,  assistance  in  health  as 
well  as  in  disease.  Wordsworth's  healing  power 
arises  from  this,  that,  like  Shakespeare,  he  discovers 
'a  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread,' and  (what  is 

30 


THE  POETRY  OF  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

still  harder  to  find)  'joys  that  spring  out  of  human 
sufFerinsr.'  To  become  a  Words worthian,  one  must 
be  born  again ;  to  read  the  poetry  of  Arnold  with 
pleasure,  we  need  not  again  become  children.  It 
will  soothe  us  in  unrest  for  a  time  ;  while  if  we  learn 
the  secret  of  the  elder  poet,  we  shall  enter  into  pos- 
session of  a  peace  that  cannot  be  disturbed. 

Of  Arnold  himself  what  shall  we  say  as  last 
word  ?  How  better  or  more  truly  can  we  think 
of  him  than  as  he  himself  taught  us  to  think  of  the 
high-hearted  Roman  Emperor  Avith  whose  inner  life 
of  thought  and  feelino;  he  had  so  much  in  common  ? 

'  We  see  him  just,  wise,  self-governed,  tender, 
thankful,  blameless ;  yet  with  all  this,  agitated, 
stretching  out  his  arms  for  something  beyond — 

Tendentemque  manus  ripae  ulterioris  amove.' 


31 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

What  distinguishes  Mi\  Meredith  among  living 
writers  is  not  so  much  his  possession  of  this  or  that 
quality,  the  intensity  and  variety  of  his  sympathies, 
the  power  or  peculiarity  of  his  style :  it  is  that  in 
an  era  of  talent,  in  an  era  in  which  we  may  be  said 
to  suffer  from  a  plethora  of  talent,  his  work  is  so 
unmistakably  beyond  the  reach  of  talent,  so  far, 
too,  beyond  the  reach  of  labour  added  to  ambition 
and  desire — it  is  so  obviously  the  work  of  genius. 
Readers  of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels  long  ago  dis- 
covered in  him  the  man  with  the  key  to  a  new  garden 
of  romance,  which  matched  the  best-loved  of  old, 
to  a  new  gallery  in  art,  whose  portraits  might  hang 
unabashed  beside  those  of  the  old  masters.  From  a 
little  clan  the  readers  of  his  prose  have  grown  into 
an  army ;  but  as  for  the  readers  of  his  verse,  these 
may  even  now  easily  be  numbered.  Yet  it  is  not 
beyond  possibility — though  the  Meredith  of  to- 
day is  indisputably  the  novelist — that  the  Meredith 
of  the  twentieth  century  may  be  the  poet.  'All 
novels  in    every  language,'  said  De  Quincey,  'are 

32 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

hurrying  to  decay' — a  judgment  not  without  a 
germ  of  truth.  Posterity,  at  all  events,  if  one  may 
venture  to  predict  the  future  from  the  present — 
will  possess  a  considerable  body  of  literature  of 
its  own,  and  will  be  necessarily  impatient,  as 
the  present  generation  is  impatient,  of  surplusage 
and  bulk  in  the  literature  of  the  past;  w^ill  do 
honour  to  the  works  of  justest  proportions,  and 
harbour  prejudices  in  favour  of  beauties  apparent 
at  first  sight,  and  of  excellence  displayed  in  narrow 
ground.  And  in  some  sense  poetry  is  excellence 
displayed  in  narrow  ground,  prose  cleared  of  the 
superfluous,  transfigured  prose,  the  sublimated 
essence ;  its  precious  sentiment  close-packed  and 
embalmed  for  a  long  journey  down  the  stream  of 
Time. 

It  cannot  be  said  of  Mr.  Meredith  that  no  writer 
of  his  century  has  challenged  the  like  serious  atten- 
tion in  the  field  of  poetry  as  well  as  of  fiction.  To 
leave  a  great  name — that  of  Scott — out  of  account, 
there  are  other  and  not  inconsiderable  rivals.  But 
Mr.  Meredith  has  achieved  a  strikingly  uniform 
success,  such  a  success  as  makes  it  difficult  to  place 
his  prose  above  his  poetry,  or  his  poetry  above  his 
prose,  without  misgivings  that  the  verdict  may  be 
reversed  by  the  critical  court  of  the  later  genera- 
tions. One  thing  is  indisputable  and  noteworthy  ; 
Mr.  Meredith's  verse  bears  a  very  close  relationship 
c  33 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

to  his  prose — it  supplements,  reinforces,  and  inter- 
prets his  prose.  Essentially  a  dramatic  artist,  he 
has  none  the  less  experienced  the  lyrical  passion  for 
the  deliverance  of  his  own  soul,  and  in  his  verse 
has  set  free  his  thought  in  his  own  person.  It  is 
precisely  the  dramatic  artist  entering  through  his 
imaginative  sympathy  into  the  characters  and 
situations  of  his  dramatis  personce  who  presents 
'the  imaginary  utterances  of  so  many  imaginary 
persons,  not  his,'  and  suppresses  himself  the  while  ; 
it  is  precisely  the  dramatic  artist,  we  may  naturally 
suppose,  in  whom  the  impulse  towards  self- revelation 
exists  most  strongly.  He  is  the  wide  and  clear-eyed 
spectator  of  life  who  sees  and  pictures  it  best,  but 
is,  for  the  most  part,  content  to  remain  unknown 
behind  his  creations.  And  in  Mr.  Meredith's 
fiction,  as  in  Shakespeare's,  a  persistent  and  impene- 
trable irony  veils  the  artist  himself;  the  author 
lurks  undiscovered  behind  the  humorist.  So  was 
it  not  with  Thackeray,  who  steps  forward  ever  and 
anon  to  speak  in  propria  persona.  So  was  it  not 
with  Scott,  whose  sympathies  there  is  no  mis- 
taking. Shakespeare  in  his  sonnets,  the  popular 
theory  has  it,  laid  aside  the  mask  of  humour,  and 
'  with  the  sonnet-key  unlocked  his  heart.'  Let  this 
be  so  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Meredith  lays 
aside  in  his  verse  the  mask  of  humour  worn  in 
his  novels.     His  poetry  is  more  essentially  serious 

34 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

than  his  prose ;  it  is  grave  almost  throughout ;  a 
personal  utterance,  the  expression  of  the  philo- 
sophy of  the  individual.  The  reader  of  the  novels 
is  in  contact  with  the  dramatic  artist,  the  spectator 
and  the  student  of  life ;  the  poems  are  the  out- 
spoken utterance  of  the  man  who  is  himself  one  of 
the  dramatis  personoe  in  personal  relation  with  the 
facts  of  the  world.  Taken  together,  this  prose  and 
this  verse  constitute  an  autobiography — the  outlook 
and  the  inlook  are  comprised  in  it.  To  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's poetry  belongs  therefore  a  special,  because  a 
near  and  personal,  interest ;  it  supplements  his 
prose,  as  has  been  said,  and  stands  to  it  somewhat 
in  the  relation  of  interpretative  criticism.  Not  the 
ignoble  curiosity  which  pries  into  the  private  life 
of  an  author,  but  a  legitimate  intellectual  curiosity 
is  here  satisfied.  One  is  grateful  to  possess  the 
individual  view  of  so  ardent  and  so  brilliant  a 
student  of  life,  especially  if,  as  in  ]\Ir.  Meredith's 
case,  no  discord  is  introduced  into  the  harmony  of 
the  entire  impression  received  from  his  work.  And 
it  may  be  broadly  stated  that  the  predominant  note 
in  i\Ir.  ^Meredith's  work  as  a  whole,  both  prose  and 
verse,  is  its  invincible  fortitude,  its  cheerful  accept- 
ance of  things  as  they  are.  He  belongs  to  that 
company  of  artists  who  have  looked  the  world  in 
the  face,  and  expressed  neither  disappointment  nor 
dissatisfaction   therewith.      In   an  epoch   in   which 

35 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

poets  are  neither  few  nor  insignificant,  Mr.  Mere- 
dith shares  with  Browning  the  distinction  that  he 
has  never  for  the  briefest  season  dwelt  in  the 
melancholy  shade.  Here  is  poetry  in  which  prevails 
no  sense  of  sadness,  no  overpowering  sentiment  of 
pity  for  the  vexed  human  race,  no  Virgilian  cry  with 
its  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things,  no  wistful  regrets, 
no  torturing  doubts.  Even  so  interesting  and  so 
great  a  writer  as  Count  Tolstoi  suffers  at  times  a 
sense  of  hopelessness  to  overcome  him,  and  involves 
us  in  his  own  despair.  But  Mr.  Meredith's  citadel 
of  mind  and  heart  is  impregnable,  and,  while  he 
will  have  us  see  the  naked  truth,  he  fortifies  us  for 
its  reception.  In  this  poetry  there  is  ever  scant 
sympathy  dispensed  for  weak  nerves  and  apprehen- 
sive hearts.  Read  Earth  and  Man,  or  this  Whimper 
of  Sympathy : — 

'  Hawk  or  shrike  has  done  this  deed 
Of  downy  feathers  :  rueful  sight  ! 
Sweet  sentimentalist,  invite 
Your  bosom's  Power  to  intercede. 

So  hard  it  seems  that  one  must  bleed 
Because  another  needs  will  bite  ! 
All  round  we  find  cold  Nature  slight 
The  feelings  of  the  totter-knee'd. 

O  it  were  pleasant^  with  you 

To  fly  from  this  tussle  of  foes. 

The  shambles,  the  charnel,  the  wrinkle  ! 

To  dwell  in  yon  dribble  of  dew 

On  the  cheek  of  your  sovereign  rose. 

And  live  the  young  life  of  a  twinkle. ' 

36 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

'  Part  of  the  best  of  a  great  literatus/  said  Whitman, 
'  shall  be  the  absence  in  him  of  the  idea  of  the  covert, 
the  lurid,  the  maleficent,  the  devil,  the  grim  estimates 
inherited  from  the  Puritans,  hell,  natural  depravity, 
and  the  like.  The  great  literatus  will  be  known  among 
us  by  his  cheerful  simplicity,  his  adherence  to  natural 
standards,  his  limitless  faith  in  God,  his  reverence,  and 
by  the  absence  in  him  of  doubt,  ennui,  burlesque, 
persiflage,  or  any  strained  or  temporary  fashion.' 

How  luminous  a  saying — but  how  shattering  to 
the  pretensions    of  the    majority  of    our   literati  \ 
The  absence  of  doubt,  ennui,  burlesque,  persiflage, 
or  any  strained  or  temporary  fashion!     Yet  it  is 
thus  Mr.  Meredith  may  be  known  among  his  con- 
temporaries as  the  great  literatus ;  by  his  cheerful 
simplicity,  his  adherence  to  natural  standards,  his 
limitless  faith  in  God,  and  by  the  absence  in  him 
of  doubt  and  ennui.      And  this  though  we  have 
passed  and  are  passing  through  times  unfavourable 
to  literature    possessed   of  these    qualities:    times 
whose  spiritual  winds   are   chil],  and  whose    skies 
grey  with  the  greyness  of  the  sea  in  winter.     Too 
surely  the    modern   world  is  not   all  that  it   was 
expected   to  be;   it  has  disappointed  expectation, 
and  we  moderns  have  reaped  from  it  a  plentiful 
crop  of  discouragement.     Since  the  Renaissance — 
that  birthday  of  the  modern  world — brought  with 
it  a  sense  of  buoyancy,  of  widening  horizons,  and 
incalculable   advances,   and    endless    triumphs   for 

37 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

humanity,  only  a  poet  here  and  there  has  been 
a  minister  of  hope  and  promised  great  things 
in  a  day  that  was  not  very  far  off.  These  eager 
spirits  on  the  watch-towers  of  thought  saw,  or 
thought  they  saw,  the  breaking  light  of  some 
great  morning  of  the  world — a  light  that  was 
about  to  fill  the  heavens  and  orb  into  humanity's 
perfect  day.  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  had  these 
purple  visions  in  youth,  but  the  disillusioning  years 
dealt  hardly  with  them.  Shelley  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  that  the  light  that  filled  his 
own  soul  did  not  shine  in  the  open  sky.  But  we 
of  the  modern  world  do  not  suffer  from  these 
illusions,  and  the  happy  enthusiasts  among  us  who 
put  their  trust  in  the  progress  of  Science  seem 
also  to  suffer  from  disillusion.  They  are  reluc- 
tantly brought  to  confess  that  while  Science  has 
given  liberally  to  humanity  with  one  hand,  she 
has  taken  away  with  the  other.  While,  however, 
the  majority  of  the  latter-day  poets  have  felt  the 
absence  of  inspiring  motives  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  time,  Mr.  Meredith  breathes  the  keen  dis- 
illusioning air  without  pain  and  without  discour- 
agement, and  declares  it  to  be  spiritually  bracing. 
The  season  is  autumn,  and  the  grey  mist 

'  Narrows  the  world  to  my  neighbour's  gate  ; 
Paints  me  Life  as  a  wheezy  crone.  .  .  . 
I,  even  I,  for  a  zenith  of  sun 

38 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Cry^  to  fulfil  me_,  nourish  my  blood  : 
O  for  a  day  of  the  long  lights  one  ! ' 

But  here  is  the  last  word  : — 

^  Verily  now  is  our  season  of  seed^ 
Now  in  our  Autumn  ;  and  Earth  discerns 
Them  that  have  served  her  in  them  that  can  read^ 
Glassing,  where  under  the  surface  she  burns. 
Quick  at  her  wheel,  while  the  fuel,  decay, 
Brightens  the  fire  of  renewal :  and  we  ? 
Death  is  the  word  of  a  bovine  to-day, 
Know  you  the  breast  of  the  springing  To-be  ? ' 

The  majority  of  the  poets  seek  refuge  when  the 
psychological  climate  of  the  times  is  unfavourable 
to  poetry,  in  the  limitless  romance  of  the  past. 
Not  so  Mr.  Meredith.  He  is  a  poet  of  a  sceculum 
reallsticum,  and  the  only  romance  for  him  is  the  real 
romance  of  the  present,  the  inexhaustible  romance 
of  the  future.  The  poetry  with  the  passion  for  the 
past,  the  poetry  that  would  hang  its  richly  wrought 
arabesque  in  gold  and  purple  between  us  and  the 
facts  of  life,  has  here  given  place  to  the  poetry 
with  an  undivided  allegiance  to  the  present,  and  to 
truth  palatable  or  unpalatable.  Goldsmith — that 
tender,  human-hearted  poet — w^rote  of  his  favourite 
books  as  being  those  which,  amusing  the  imagina- 
tion, contributed  to  ease  the  heart,  and  in  another 
of  his  exquisite  sentences  defined  the  office  of  the 
poet- sage  :  '  Innocently  to  amuse  the  imagination 
in  this  dream  of  life  is  wisdom.'     The  wisdom  of 

39 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Mr.  Meredith's  poetry  is  made  of  sterner  stuff. 
If  we  are  to  be  cradled  in  comfortable  philosophies, 
transcendental  or  mystical,  lapped  in  soft  Lydian 
airs,  or  borne  in  a  car  of  song  by  the  instinct  of 
sweet  music  driven,  we  must  read  poetry  other 
than  this.  And  Mr.  Meredith  declines,  too,  the 
sad  task  in  which  Matthew  Arnold  engaged,  the 
task  of  '  sweeping  up  the  dead  leaves  fallen  from 
the  dying  tree  of  faith.' 

^  These  are  our  sensual  dreams  ; 
Of  the  yearning  to  touchy  to  feel 
The  dark  Impalpable  sure. 
And  have  the  Unveiled  appear.' 

Poetry  such  as  this,  devoid  of  the  sentiment  of 
regret,  devoid  of  that  tender  melancholy  so  charac- 
teristic of  Matthew  Arnold ;  almost  devoid,  too, 
of  the  sentiment  of  pathos ;  which  seems  to  shun 
the  elegiac  sentiment  in  which  so  much  of  the 
world's  poetry  is  steeped,  and  by  which  it  makes 
its  appeal ;  poetry  like  this  strikes  a  strange 
and  original  note.  The  chords  to  which  Mr. 
Meredith  trusts  for  his  effects  are  chords  seldom 
heard  upon  the  lyre ;  his  is  a  poetry  of  almost 
exclusively  intellectual  interest — the  music  from 
an  iron  string.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  this 
poetry  should  give  us  the  full  sense  of  vitality  as 
Chaucer  gives  it,  of  the  mere  joy  of  living,  or 
charm  us  to  dreamful  ease  as  Spenser  charms. 

40 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

*  He  who  has  looked  upon  Earth 
Deeper  than  flower  and  fruit 
Loses  some  hue  of  his  Hiirth.' 

But  poesy  has  an  infancy,  an  adolescence,  an 
immortality  Protean.  ]\Ir.  Meredith's  is  not  the 
buoyant  spirit  of  Chaucer,  but  the  virtue  of  his 
poetry  resides  none  the  less  in  its  astonishing 
vitality  and  in  the  power  to  communicate  that 
vitality.  To  the  freshness  and  buoyancy  it  possesses 
is  added  a  flavour  of  intellectual  bitter  that  springs 
from  its  devotion  to  reality,  and  it  is  by  reason  of 
its  rarely  mingled  elements,  its  freshness  and  buoy- 
ancy, and  its  strenuous  devotion  to  reality,  that  Mr. 
Meredith's  poetry  achieves  a  new  poetic  triumph. 

'  I  am  certain,'  said  Keats  of  his  own  Lamia.) 
'  I  am  certain  that  there  is  that  sort  of  fire  in  it 
which  must  take  hold  of  people  in  some  way — 
give  them  either  pleasant  or  unpleasant  sensation.*' 
The  poetry  of  Mr.  Meredith,  too,  is  not  negligible  ; 
it  has  that  sort  of  fire  in  it  which  takes  hold  of 
one,  and  gives  him  either  a  pleasant  or  unpleasant 
sensation.  This  is  verse  that  will  not  suffer  a 
reader  to  pass  bv  in  peace,  and,  if  it  makes  not 
music  for  him,  he  will,  with  Hotspur,  prefer  to 
hear  the  dry  wheel  grate  on  the  axle-tree. 

'  Square  along  the  couch^  and  stark, 
Like  the  sea-rejected  thing 
Sea-sucked  white^  behold  their  king 
Attila^.  my  Attila  !   .   .    . 

41 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Him,  their  lord  of  day  and  niglit, 
White,  and  lifting  up  his  blood 
Dumb  for  vengeance.     Name  us  that, 
Huddled  in  the  corner  dark. 
Humped  and  grinning  like  a  cat. 
Teeth  for  lips  !     'Tis  she  !     She  stares. 
Glittering  through  her  bristled  hairs. 
Rend  her  !     Pierce  her  to  the  hilt ! ' 

Discriminating  readers  of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels 
have  no  doubt  felt  the  presence  of  the  poet  even 
in  his  garment  of  prose,  but  probably  few  suspect 
that  the  poet  preceded  the  novelist.  His  first 
public  appearance  was  with  a  volume,  published 
in  1851,  simply  entitled  Poems,  and  dedicated  to 
his  father-in-law,  Thomas  Love  Peacock.  It  was 
not  until  some  years  later  that  he  took  the  field 
with  a  novel.  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat.  The 
second  volume  of  Poems  appeared  in  1862  (three 
years  after  Richard  Feverel),  Modem  Love  and 
Poems  of  the  English  Roadside,  with  Poems  and 
Ballads ;  the  third,  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy 
of  Earth,  in  1883  ;  the  fourth,  Ballads  and  Poems 
of  Tragic  Lije,  in  1887;  the  fifth,  A  Reading  of 
Earth,  in  1888 ;  the  sixth.  The  Empty  Purse  and 
other  Poems,  in  1892.  Of  these  the  first  volume 
is  now  a  rare  treasure,  more  especially  as  the 
author  has  not  cared  to  reprint  his  Juve^iilia ;  and 
the  second  contains,  besides  many  verses  never 
reprinted,  the    original   Modern  Love,   which   was 

42 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

selected  by  the  author  for  republication  accom- 
panied by  some  new  poems  as  a  separate  volume 
in  1892. 

The    best    order    in   which   first    to   read   Mr. 
Meredith's  poetry  is  not,  I  think,  the  chronological 
order.     If  one  begins  wdth  A  Reading  of  Earth, 
and   passes  to  the  remaining  volumes  by  way  of 
the  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth,    one 
moves    more    easily,    receives    a   more    continuous, 
a  more  unbroken  impression,  and  enters  at   once 
into  sympathy   with  the  attitude  of  the    author. 
And  Mr.  Meredith's  attitude,  his  choice  of  subject, 
and  his  method  require  to  be  acquiesced  in — '  not 
to  sympathise  is  not  to  understand.'     A  poet  com- 
monly places  himself  en  rapport  with  his  audience 
by  his  choice  of  subject  or  by  the  adoption  of  a 
familiar  method,  and  he  is  accustomed  as  artist  to 
retire  to  a  distance  from  his  work  and  to  contem- 
plate its  eflPect  from  a  point  of  view  not  entirely 
his  own.     He  has  during  the  creative  process  his 
audience  in  his  eye.     If  he  is  unable  or  imwilling  to 
gain  this  remoteness  from  his  own  creation,  if  he 
decline  to  place  himself  either  by  choice  of  subject 
or  by  the  adoption  of  a  familiar  method  at  the 
universal  point  of  view,  he  demands  an  unusual  in- 
tellectual activity  from  his  readers,  and  wins  his 
way  with  them  certainly  more  gradually,  perhaps 
not  at  all.      Approval    of  his   choice    of   subject, 

43 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

approval  of  his  method,  are  not  assured  him  until 
it  be  granted  that  the  eiFect  has  justified  the  means. 
For  a  law  of  parsimony  holds  in  art :  the  old 
methods  are  sealed  by  acceptance,  and  a  new,  if 
not  successful,  is  an  impertinence. 

The  onus  probandi  rests  with  such  a  poet  to 
show  good  reason  for  his  departure  from  accredited 
poetic  example.  The  progress  of  Wordsworth 
through  ridicule  to  fame  was  the  progress  of  a 
poet  of  determined  independence  in  choice  of  sub- 
ject as  well  as  in  poetic  methods.  Yet  opposition 
once  overcome,  it  is  the  poet  with  the  note  of 
strangeness  in  his  voice  to  whom  we  return — the 
note  of  strangeness  is  the  note  of  individuality. 
In  poetry,  too,  as  in  all  art,  there  is  a  compromise 
effected,  and  the  note  of  strangeness  is  the  mark 
of  the  fresh  compromise,  the  alteration  of  balance 
effected  by  the  new  method,  the  new  choice  of  sub- 
ject. Or  rather  let  us  say  that  with  the  original 
poet  a  novel  aspect  of  things  is  brought  into  the 
foreground,  a  new  predominant  purpose  is  dis- 
played. With  Tennyson  the  main  purpose  was  to 
bend  his  lanocuass-e  to  his  thouo^ht  so  that  no  verse 
should  escape  him  unenriched  by  a  musical  cadence, 
that  no  arrow  unfeathered  with  melody  should  leave 
his  bow.  With  Mr.  Meredith  the  main  purpose  is 
achieved  if  no  line,  no  phrase  escape  him  unin- 
formed by  force,  if  he  discharge  no  shaft  unwinged 

44 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

or  unweighted  with  thought.  Hence  obscurity  is 
the  charge  brought  against  him  ;  he  has  been  called 
an  inarticulate  poet,  and  doubtless  he  is  at  times 
obscure.  But  like  Browning's,  Mr.  Meredith's 
obscurity  arises  out  of  the  number  and  fervency 
of  his  ideas  ;  he  is  obscure  because  he  has  so  much 
to  say,  and  is  in  such  haste  to  say  it,  and  moreover 
insists  upon  his  own  point  of  view  and  demands 
from  his  reader  that  flexibility  of  intelligence,  that 
intellectual  activity,  necessary  to  the  appreciation 
of  an  unfamiliar  poetic  method.  And  obscurity 
is,  after  all,  the  vaguest  of  charges.  Gray  was 
accounted  obscure ;  Shelley  intolerably  obscure ; 
Tennyson,  even  our  popular  Tennyson,  in  the  days 
of  his  early  triumphs  was  censured  for  his  obscurity. 
And  if  the  readers  of  Browning  are  content  to 
travel  far,  and  at  times  even  with  lagging  step, 
to  catch  sight  of  splendours  such  as  this  : — 

'  I  shall  keep  your  honour  safe ; 
With  mine  I  trust  you,  as  the  sculptor  trusts 
Yon  marble  woman  with  the  marble  rose. 
Loose  on  her  hand,  she  never  will  let  fall. 
In  graceful,  slight,  silent  security ' — 

then  the  readers  of  Mr.  Meredith  may  well  be  con- 
tent to  undergo  occasional  mental  fatigue  for  the 
sake  of,  let  us  say,  such  a  magnificent  Meditation 
under  Stars  as  this  : — 

'  We  who  reflect  those  rays,  though  low  our  place. 
To  them  are  lastingly  allied. 

45 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

So  may  we  read^  and  little  find  them  cold  : 

Not  frosty  lamps  illumining  dead  space^ 

Not  distant  aliens^  not  senseless  Powers. 

The  fire  is  in  them  whereof  we  are  born  ; 

The  music  of  their  motion  may  he  ours. 

Spirit  shall  deem  them  beckoning  Earth  and  voiced 

Sisterly  to  her_,  in  her  beams  rejoiced. 

Of  love,  the  grand  impulsion,  we  behold 

The  love  that  lends  her  grace 

Among  the  starry  fold. 
Then  at  new  flood  of  customary  morn. 

Look  at  her  through  her  showers. 

Her  mists,  her  streaming  gold, 
A  wonder  edges  the  familiar  face  : 
She  wears  no  more  that  robe  of  printed  hours  ; 
Half  strange  seems  Earth,  and  sweeter  than  her  flowers. ' 

It  may  freely  be  granted  that  in  general  we  have 
too  continuous  a  strain,  too  unrelieved  an  emphasis 
in  Mr.  Meredith's  poetry.  It  lacks  breathing- 
spaces,  points  of  repose  for  the  imagination.  Once 
we  have  ascended  his  poetic  car  we  are  borne  along 
at  full  speed,  a  speed  that  is  rarely  slackened  until 
the  goal  be  reached.  Thus  it  comes  that  one  can- 
not read  for  long  in  these  volumes,  as  in  Tenny- 
son's ;  one  cannot  fleet  the  time  carelessly  with  this 
poet  as  with  Mr.  William  Morris.  Mr.  Meredith 
is  not  of  the  singers  who  simply  say  the  most  heart- 
easing  things,  who  lead  us  to  their  favourite  haunts 
by  wood  or  stream,  and  discourse  music  to  us  that 
we  may  drink  oblivion  of  care  and  pass  into  a 
many-coloured  dream  of  flitting  shadows.    There  is  a 

46 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

poetry — and  who  shall  deny  to  it  an  unceasing  charm? 
— a  poetry  that  breathes  the  spirit  of  meadow  and 
woodland,  of  cottages  nestling  in  sunny  angles,  of 
fields  that  have  known  the  plough  for  centuries, 
of  orchards  weighted  with  fruit  and  lanes  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  honeysuckle  and  meadowsweet, 
a  poetry  sweet  as  country  air  can  make  it,  that 
speaks  of  English  Spring  and  Summer  and  happy 
harvests.  There  is,  too,  a  poetry  that  is  less  sweet, 
that  seems  born  of  the  barren  hills,  that  bears  with 
it  the  sharp  salt  air  of  the  sea ;  a  poetry  that  sum- 
mons rather  than  promises,  and  in  the  room  of  rest 
offers  action.  Mr.  Meredith  has  touched  the  tender 
stops  of  various  quills,  and  the  Doric  lay  is  not 
beyond  his  skill,  but  in  the  main  his  music  is  the 
inspiring  music  of  the  trumpet  that  calls  to  war. 
And  if  he  fall  short  as  a  poet,  it  is  that  he  is  too 
strenuous  to  be  altogether  peaceful,  and  that  the 
impressions  received  from  his  verse  are  too  crowded 
to  permit  of  that  leisurely  sipping  of  the  cup,  that 
tranquil  enjoyment  which  is  essential  to  the  due 
appreciation  of  poetry.  Poetry  and  haste  are 
eternal  incompatibles.  One  cannot  bolt  a  stanza 
in  the  five  minutes'*  interval  between  encfasfements, 
nor  can  one  find  perfect  happiness  in  the  company 
of  a  poet  whose  pace  is  always  a  gallop.  Mr. 
Meredith's  verse  has  caught  contagion  from  the 
hurry  and   the   bustle  of  modern    life.     And   his 

47 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

utterance,  too,  is  a  staccato  utterance.     It  would 
be  untrue  to  say  of  him  that  there  was  no  light 
and  shade  in  his  conceptions,  but  there  is  often  an 
absence  of  light  and  shade  in  his  expression.     And 
thouo-h  Mr.  Meredith  conceives  aright  the  sensuous 
as  well  as  the  intellectual  life,  his  poetry  usually, 
though  with   brilliant   instances  to   the  contrary, 
lacks  the  sensuous  element,  usually  fails  to  express 
that  element  as  vividly  as  it  expresses  the  intel- 
lectual.     Language,    especially    the    language    of 
poetry,  has  an  office  other  than  that  of  mirroring 
with   precision   a   train   of  ideas;    it   must   make 
appeal  to  the  senses,  to  the  eye  and  to  the  ear, 
to  the  memory  and  its  associations,  to  the  imagina- 
tion and  its  dreams.     Yet  this  is  not  the  day  nor 
the  hour  to  complain  of  poetry  in  which  the  intel- 
lectual element  outbalances  the  sensuous;   rather 
we  owe  to  poetry  of  which  this  is  true  a  debt  of 
gratitude.     A  little  thought  goes  far  in   modern 
verse,  and  the  critics  assure  us  that  even  that  little 
is  unnecessary.     '  Poetry,'  Mr.  Henley  tells  us,  '  is 
style.'      And  in  Mr.   Meredith's   poetry   the  very 
force   and   intensity  of  his  thought   communicate 
a   beauty  to   his    phrase — the  beauty  that  shines 
in  strength.     Take  this  of  Byron's  Manfred : — 

'^  Considerably  was  the  world 
Of  spinsterdom  and  clergy  racked 
^^^ile  he  his  hinted  horrors  hurled. 
And  she  pictoriallv  attacked. 

4S 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

A  duel  hugeous  !     Tragic  ?     Ho  ! 
The  cities,  not  the  mountains,  blow 
Such  bladders  ;  in  their  shapes  confessed 
An  after-dinner's  indigest/ 

But  Mr.  Meredith's  is  not  always  the  music  from 
an  iron  string.  That  he  has  a  manner  besides  this 
of  rugged  force  is  easily  demonstrable.  The  critic 
will  need  to  search  dili^entlv  throuirh  Eno-lish 
poetry  to  discover  a  poem  of  more  blithe  and 
gracious  sweetness,  more  radiant  with  the  dew  and 
sunshine  of  morning,  with  the  captivating  joyance  of 
youth  than  Love  in  the  Valley.  The  measure — and 
it  may  be  noted  that  in  metres  Mr.  Meredith  greatly 
and  successfully  dares — the  measure  itself  dances  to 
the  tripping  pulses  of  the  young  blood. 

'  Cool  was  the  woodside ;  cool  as  her  white  dairy 

Keeping  sweet  the  cream-pan  ;   and  there  the  boys  from 
school. 
Cricketing  below,  rushed  brown  and  red  with  sunshine  ; 

0  the  dark  translucence  of  the  deep-eyed  cool  !   .   .  : 

Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  heaven, 

1  would  speak  my  heart  out :  heaven  is  my  need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like  the  dogwood. 

Flashing  like  the  whitebeam,  swaying  like  the  reed. 
Flushing  like  the  dogwood  crimson  in  October  ; 

Streaming  like  the  flag-reed  south-west  blown  ; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  sudden-lighted  whitebeam  : 

All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven  alone.' 

Here,  and   in  a   pastoral    not  reprinted    from  his 
earliest  volume,  Mr.  Meredith's  verse  bubbles,  and 
D  49 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

creams,  and  ripples  from  the  very  founts  of  spring 
and  summer. 

'  Come_,  and  like  bees  will  we  gather  the  rich  golden  honey 

of  noontide 
Deep  in  the  sweet  summer  meadows_,  bordered  by  hillside 

and  river.  .  .   . 
O  joy  thus  to  revel  all  day  in  the  grass  of  our  own  belov'd 

countrj'^_, 
Revel  all  day  till  the  lark  mounts  at  eve  with  his  sweet 

'  tirra-lirra '  ; 
Thrilling  delightfully.' 

The  lyric  beauty  of  poems  such  as  these  will  recall 
to  readers  of  the  novels  the  passion-brimming  lyrical 
enchantments  woven  in  the  '  Ferdinand  and  Mir- 
anda '  chapters  of  Richard  Feverel,  beside  which  I 
do  not  know  that  there  is  anything  in  literature  to 
be  placed  since  Romeo  and  Juliet  itself.  In  others 
of  the  Poems  aiid  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth  is  heard 
the  same  clear  lark-like  trill  of  gladness,  a  music  as 
of  the  early  world  untouched  by  human  pain  or 
sorrow,  a  song  of  the  elements  : — 

'  Water^  first  of  singers^  o'er  rocky  mount  and  mead^ 
First  of  earthly  singers^  the  sun-loved  rill 
Sang  of  liim^  and  flooded  the  ripples  on  the  reed 
Seeking  whom  to  waken  and  what  ear  fill. ' 

But  to  enter  into  the  true  spirit  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
poetry  of  nature  we  must  come  to  it  bv  way  of  A 
Reading  of  Earth.  We  are  constantly  assured  by 
modern  criticism   and   by   the  practice  of  modern 

50 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

poets  that  it  is  no  part  of  the  poet's  duty  to  be  a 
teacher,  that  the  exposition  of  belief  Hes  altogether 
outside  the  province  of  art.  Mr.  Meredith  abides 
by  the  tradition  of  the  greater  English  poets, 
Spenser  and  Milton  and  Wordsworth,  and  his 
poetry  frankly  outlines  a  faith,  delineates  a  philo- 
sophy of  life.  It  is  a  creed  of  full  and  lasting  'joy 
in  the  old  heart  of  things  "* ;  but  how  hold  and  live 
by  that  creed  in  the  face  of  the  certain  sorrows,  the 
uncertain  issues,  the  unavoidable  partings  of  life, 
the  knowledge  that 

^  The  word  of  the  world  is  adieu  : 
Her  word  :  and  the  torrents  are  round^ 
The  jawed  wolf-waters  of  prey '  ? 

To  preserve  for  the  human  race  during  its  dark 
hours  the  heart  of  hope,  the  faith  that  there  is  some 
soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil,  that  evil  itself  is  not 
immortal,  and  that  the  destiny  of  man  is  something 
more  than  to  die,  is  not  the  meanest  achievement  of 
the  poet.  Yet,  when  this  faith  and  this  hope  are 
threatened,  so  exclusively  does  the  poetic  spirit 
seem  to  feed  upon  the  beauty  and  the  pathos  of  life 
that  the  poets  often  offer  us  no  more  than  a  sad 
philosophy  of  '  indifference,"  or  a  fuller  life  of  the 
senses,  the  worship  of  the  flesh  in  despair  of  soul. 
But  Mr.  Meredith  in  this  also  abides  by  the  poetic 
tradition  of  the  greater  poets,  and  refuses  to  despair 

51 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

of  soul.      The    resurgent    brood    of   questions — to 

which   Earth,    our   mother,    replies    not — are    but 

the  brood    of  unfaith,   and   earth's  silence  argues 

no  indifference  to  her  children.     Of  those  who  ask 

them 

^  Earth  whispers  :  they  scarce  have  the  thirsty 
Except  to  unriddle  a  rune  ; 
And  I  spin  none  ;  only  show^ 
Would  humanity  soar  from  its  worst, 
Winged  above  darkness  and  dole. 
How  flesh  unto  spirit  must  grow. 
Spirit  raves  not  for  a  goal. 

...   It  trusts ; 
Uses  my  gifts,  yet  aspires  ; 
Dreams  of  a  higher  than  it.' 

In  A  Faith  on  Tj'ial,  and  in  Earth  a7id  Man, 
Mr.  Meredith  sets  forth  a  spiritual  philosophy  of 
courageous  faith,  a  philosophy  akin,  in  some  re- 
spects, to  that  of  Wordsworth,  but  informed  by  the 
later  spirit  of  scientific  realism.  The  poet  is  now, 
as  the  man  of  the  future  will  be,  as  we  are  all  fast 
becoming,  neither  idealist  nor  realist,  neither  one 
nor  the  other,  because  both.  If  Mr.  Meredith  in  his 
poetry  rejects  with  the  unalterable  mien  of  physical 
science  any  mystical  explanation  of  things  which 
leaves  the  facts  and  laws  of  the  great  external  world 
of  our  physical  nature  out  of  account,  he  rejects 
with  equal  firmness  the  philosophy  of  immediate 
conclusions  based  upon  the  slight  and  meagre  know- 
ledge we  possess.     Like  the  Christian's,  Mr.  Mere- 

52 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

dith's  word  is  'Faith  till  proof  be  ready."  Only 
when  the  lesson  of 

^  A  fortitude  quiet  as  Earth's 
At  the  shedding  of  leaves ' 

has  been  duly  learned,  only  when  the  attitude  of 

'^  uiifaith  clamouring  to  be  coined 
To  faith  by  proof 

has  been  abandoned,  can  the  inheritance  of  the 
children  of  Earth  be  entered  upon,  the  children 
whose  love  is  without  fear,  who  have  taken  to  heart 
Earth'*s  counsel — 

^  "  And  if  thou  hast  good  faith^  it  can  repose," 
She  tells  her  son.' 

The  poem  which  stands  first  in  the  volume  of 
Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  oj  Earth  conveys  a 
warning  on  the  threshold  to  those  about  to  enter 
on  the  inheritance,  the  harvest  of  full  delight  in 
companionship  with  Earth.  These  are  enchanted 
woods,  and  the  only  charm  that  affords  protection 
is  a  spirit  of  courageous  confidence. 

•  Enter  these  enchanted  woods^ 

You  who  dare. 
Nothing  harms  beneath  the  leaves 
More  than  waves  a  swimmer  cleaves. 
Toss  your  heart  up  with  the  lark, 
Foot  at  peace  with  mouse  and  worm, 

Fair  you  fare. 

53 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Only  at  a  dread  of  dark 

Quaver^  and  they  quit  their  form  : 

Thousand  eyeballs  under  hoods 

Have  you  by  the  hair. 
Enter  these  enchanted  woods. 

You  who  dare.' 

Few  among  Mr.  Meredith's  poems  are  more 
quaintly,  and  at  the  same  time  more  powerfully, 
conceived  than  this.  The  Woods  of  Westermain. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  forest  is  abroad  in  it,  a 
mystery  of  life  lurks  in  the  thicket  and  among  the 
leaves.     With  it  should  be  read  Melampus — 

^  Where  others  hear  but  a  hum  and  see  but  a  beam. 
The  tongue  and  eye  of  the  fountain  of  life  he  knew.' 

Here,  as  in  all  his  nature-poems,  Mr.  Meredith  moves 
with  the  firm  step  of  one  to  whom  the  path  is  a 
familiar  one  :  a  subtle  accuracy  of  observation  shines 
in  every  epithet.  There  is  no  poet  since  the  death 
of  Wordsworth  for  whom  nature  has  meant  so 
much  as  for  Mr.  Meredith.  From  many  of  his 
poems  one  might  conceive  him  as  entirely  preoccu- 
pied with  nature,  a  close  and  eager  student,  to 
whom  the  world  of  individual  men  and  women  was 
little  more  than  a  shadowland.  How  far  this  is 
wide  of  the  truth  readers  of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels 
are  indeed  aware;  and  perhaps  we  need  go  no 
further  for  convincing  proof,  if  any  were  needed, 
of  the  mental  grasp  and  breadth  displayed  in  his 

54 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

work,  a  breadth  and  grasp  unmatched  in  the  work 
of  any  living  man.  The  place  occupied  by  nature 
in  modern  poetry  since  the  advent  of  Wordsworth 
must  in  large  measure  be  associated  with  the  growth 
of  a  knowledge  of  nature,  and  the  desire  for  that 
knowledge  displayed  in  scientific  investigation. 
With  Mr.  Meredith  nature  is  not  so  much,  as  with 
Wordsworth,  an  object  of  impassioned  contempla- 
tion, an  enclasping  presence,  the  source  of  spiritual 
ecstasy.  She  is  rather  nature  as  revealed  to  us  by 
science,  the  eternal  activity,  the  nature  that  over- 
flows with  individual  life.  And  an  enduring  place 
among  the  English  poets  is  assured  to  Mr.  Mere- 
dith if  for  this  alone,  that  he  is  the  first  to  accept 
fearlessly  the  view  of  nature  offered  by  modern 
science,  and  not  to  accept  it  only,  but  to  find  that 
view  vitally  poetic  and  inspiring.  For  this  he  will 
be  remembered.  He  will  be  remembered  and  hon- 
oured as  that  courageous  spirit  who,  when  his  com- 
panions were  assailed  by  fears,  embraced  with  ready 
welcome  the  entire  unbroken  ring,  the  whole  result 
of  science,  and,  claiming  this  too  as  a  province  of 
art,  drew  from  the  new  truths  fresh  auo^uries  and 
hopes  and  lessons  for  humanity. 

Mr.  Meredith's  study  of  nature  is  that  of  the 
naturalist,  the  naturalist  who  has  become  the  pas- 
sionate lover.  He  would  have  us  believe  that  a 
closer  intimacy  with  nature  will  serve  to  prove  her 

55 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

'  Mother  of  simple  truth. 
Relentless  quencher  of  lies. 
Eternal  in  thought,' 

and  to  dispel  the  unworthy  apprehensions  which, 
judging  her  with  shrinking  nerves,  make  her  'a 
cruel  sphinx," 

^  A  mother  of  aches  and  jests  ; 
Soulless,  heading  a  hunt. 
Aimless  except  for  the  meal. ' 

She  is  before  and  above  all  the  Earth  our  mother, 
instructress  of  her  children ;  and  to  prate  of  other 
worlds  ere  we  have  mastered  this  and  its  lessons 
seems  to  Mr.  Meredith  the  hugest  of  follies. 
Man's  debt  to  Earth  is  not  yet  fully  paid  ;  his  glory 
is  that  in  paying  that  debt  he  lays  at  her  feet  a 
nobler  garland  than  any  crown  of  beauty  that 
adorns  her  brows  : — 

'  He  builds  the  soaring  spires. 
That  sing  his  soul  in  stone  :  of  her  he  draws. 
Though  blind  to  her,  by  spelling  at  her  laws. 
Her  purest  fires. 

Through  him  hath  she  exchanged. 
For  the  gold  harvest-robes,  the  mural  crown. 
Her  haggard  quarry-features  and  thick  frown 
Where  monsters  ranged. 

And  order,  high  discourse. 
And  decency,  than  which  is  life  less  dear. 
She  has  of  him  :  the  lyre  of  language  clear. 
Love's  tongue  and  source.' 

Thus  it  is  that  through  the  knowledge  of  earth, 

56 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

'  never  misread    by    brain,"*    we    approach    a   fuller 
consciousness  of  the  issues  and  meanings  of  life, 
^Till  brain-rule  splendidly  towers.' 

Mr.  Meredith  is  at  times  obscure,  but  he  is  never 

intangible  ;  he  is  at  times  difficult,  but  he  is  never 

unreal.      Sureness   of  grasp,  concentration,  force, 

significance — these  are  the  splendid  qualities  of  his 

style,  and  at  times  one  catches  an  accent,  a  phrase, 

a  verse  exquisitely  tuneful,   a   melody  wholly  his 

own.      How    much    of  the  poetry   of  talent,  how 

much  even  of  the  poetry  of  genius,  fails  because 

it  does  not  go  deep  enough,  because  it  does  not 

lay   hold    of  reality !       ]Mr.    Meredith's   poetry   of 

nature  lays  firm  hold  of  reality.     Just  as  Browning 

had  no    fear    of   the    real,    but   delighted    in    the 

uncouth,  the  forbidding,  the  extravagant   natural 

forms — 

'  See  our  fisher  arrive 
And  pitch  down  his  basket  before  us ;  all  trembling-  alive 
^^^ith  pink  and  grey  jellies^  your  sea-fruit ;  you  touch  the 

strange  lumps^ 
And  mouths  gape  there,  eyes  open^  all  manner  of  horns  and 

of  humps ' — 

so  Mr.  Meredith  does  not  fear  the  real,  and  does 
not  reserve  himself  to  celebrate  nature  in 

'  Her  pomp  of  glorious  hues^ 
Her  revelries  of  ripeness,  her  kind  smile.' 

His  '  cosmic    enthusiasm '  is  without   reservations, 
his  spiritual  freedom  untrammelled  and  entire. 

57 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

The  Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life  display 
Mr.  Meredith  in  his  characteristic,  his  unmistakable 
style,  the   style   which  is  the  despair  of  so  many 
readers.     Here  are  ballads,  indeed,  but  not  of  that 
species  which  may  be  defined  as  the  simplest  and 
most  direct  form  of  narrative  poetry.     To    disen- 
tangle these   tales    one  must  proceed    warily,  and 
piece  each  together,  like  a  mosaic,  from  hints,  re- 
flections, apostrophes,  and  the  future  may  not  find 
ballads    of  this    order   acceptable.       Save   in    The 
Nuptials  ofAttila,  the  vigour  of  the  manner  hardly 
compensates  for   the    harshness    of  the   narration. 
But  The  Nuptials  of  Attila  is  a  notable  exception,  a 
notable  poem.     It  is  not  only  a  notable,  it  is  an 
altoo-ether  marvellous  and  indescribable,  poem.    To 
read  it  is  to  hear  the  tread  of  armies,  to  mingle  in 
the  tossing  tumult  of  barbarian  camps,  to  catch 
one's  breath  in  the  presence  of  the  Queen  of  Tragedy 
herself.     There  is  no  poem  with  which  it  can    to 
any  purpose  be  compared.     From  first  to    last  it 
displays  the  characteristics  of  Mr.  Meredith  at  his 
best  and  strongest,  and  will  take  rank  among  the 
great  achievements  of  modern   verse  as  a  tour  de 
force  of  unique  power  and  splendour. 

The  volume  containing  these  ballads,  which 
represent  the  poet  in  his  most  disdainful  mood  of 
the  accepted  poetical  methods,  represents  him  also 
in  his  docile  mood  of  almost  academic  '  correctness,' 

58 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

content  to  move  in  familiar  ways  of  art.  The  sus- 
tained magnificence  of  diction  in  France^  December 
1870,  recalls  the  historical  accents  of  our  English 
speech,  the  English  language  as  written  by  its 
greatest  masters,  as  we  have  grown  to  love  and 
hope  to  preserve  it. 

^The  Gods  alone 

Remember  everlastingly  ;  they  strike 

Remorselessly,  and  ever  like  for  like. 

By  their  great  memories  the  Gods  are  known.' 

'  Lo,  strength  is  of  the  plain  root-virtues  born  ; 
Strength  shall  ye  gain  by  service,  prove  in  scorn. 
Train  by  endurance,  by  devotion  shape. 
Strength  is  not  won  by  miracle  or  rape. 
It  is  the  offspring  of  the  modest  years. 
The  gift  of  sire  to  son,  thro'  those  firm  laws 
Which  we  name  God's  ;  which  are  the  righteous  cause. 
The  cause  of  man,  and  manhood's  ministers.' 

'  Soaring  France, 
Now  is  Humanity  on  trial  in  thee ; 
Now  mayst  thou  gather  humankind  in  fee  ; 
Now  prove  that  Reason  is  a  quenchless  scroll ; 
Make  of  calamity  thine  aureole. 
And  bleeding,  lead  us  thro'  the  troubles  of  the  sea.' 

This  is  the  English  of  Milton,  and  Southey,  and 
Wordsworth,  the  English  that  speaks  the  character 
and  power  of  the  English  race.  It  is  evidently  not 
because  Mr.  Meredith  finds  it  beyond  his  power  to 
write  a  simple  and  direct  style  that  he  indulges  in 
the  style  characteristic  of  him.  In  France^  and  in 
that  remarkable   series  of  poems  entitled    Modern 

59 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Love^  he  moves  with  ease  and  dignity  within  the 
strictest  traditions  of  poetic  diction,  and  if  the 
latter  exhibits  any  obscurities,  they  are  certainly  not 
obscurities  of  expression.  The  works  of  ancient  art, 
said  Sainte-Beuve,  'ne  sont  pas  classiques  parce 
qu'ils  sont  vieux,  mais  parce  qu'ils  sont  energiques, 
frais  et  dispos."*  Modern  Love  is  a  series  of  sonnets 
— we  may  call  them  sonnets — modern  in  phrase, 
modern  in  sentiment,  modern  in  their  treatment  of 
a  subject  unknown  to  ancient  art,  yet  if  Saint-Beuve 
be  right,  then  is  Mr.  Meredith,  the  author  of 
Modern  Love,  already  a  classic.  On  the  appear- 
ance of  this  poem  in  1862,  the  Spectator  spoke  of 
the  author  as  dealing  here  with  '  a  deep  and  painful 
subject  upon  whicli  he  has  no  convictions  to  express.** 
But  the  aim  of  Mr.  Meredith's  art  is  neither  to 
persuade  nor  to  tranquillise.  He  is  neither  a  con- 
cise doctrinaire  with  ready-made  conclusions  for  his 
readers,  nor  the  type  of  poet  who  affords  agreeable 
shelter  for  the  imagination,  from  the  strain  and 
stress  of  the  world.  Throughout  his  poetry,  this 
strain  and  stress  is  exhibited  ;  the  fingers  of  the 
artist  are  upon  the  pulse  of  the  modern  world.  The 
web  and  the  woof  of  Mr.  Meredith's  poetry  are  its 
resolute  devotion  to  the  conditions  that  are  present, 
his  achievement  as  a  poet  is  the  singular  exactness 
with  which  these  conditions  are  presented  by  him, 
and  elevated  to  poetic  rank.      He  has  extracted 

60 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

inspiration  from  conditions  which  seemed  incapable 
of  supplying  inspiration,  which  seemed  hostile  to  it, 
and  from  the  dull  or  commonplace,  or  dispiriting 
aspects  of  life,  has  rescued  the  stimulus  or  interest 
which,  properly  approached  and  viewed  by  the 
artist,  they  offer.  Sedatives  are  abundantly  supplied 
in  the  poetry  of  the  time  ;  in  its  tonic  properties 
consists  the  virtue  of  Mr.  Meredith's  poetry.  It 
kindles  energy,  because  energy  is  its  preponderating 
quality,  and  if  he  has  not  cared  to  provide  for  his 
readers  the  graces  and  harmonies  to  which  they 
have  grown  accustomed,  compensations  are  not 
wanting.  Let  it  be  granted  that  the  familiar  acces- 
sories of  colour  and  rhythm  and  impassioned  feeling 
are  subservient  to  the  heart  of  thought.  Thought 
is  his  familiar,  and  finds  him  in  every  mood ;  finds 
him  intense  and  eager,  finds  him  pensive  or  lyrical, 
passionate  or  mirthful,  finds  him  careful  or  careless 
of  his  art,  but  is  his  constant,  his  ever-present 
familiar,  and  the  wise  will  be  willing  to  accept  Mr. 
Meredith  in  all  his  moods. 

If  the  music  seem  harsh,  or  the  strain  a  jangled  one, 

^  But  listen  in  the  thought ;  so  may  there  come 
Conception  of  a  newly-added  chord. 
Commanding  space  beyond  where  ear  has  home.' 

As  to  the  greatness  of  Modern  Love,  that  tragedy 
of  the  heart,  a  sombre  picture  etched  in  quick 
suggestions  alive  with  tragic  irony  and  force, — as  to 

6i 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

the  greatness  of  that  poem  in  respect  of  execution, 
Mr.  Swinburne  may  be  left  to  speak. 

'Take  almost  any  sonnet  at  random  out  of  this 
series,  and  let  any  one  qualified  to  j  udge  for  himself  of 
metre,  choice  of  expression,  and  splendid  language 
decide  on  its  claims.  And  after  all,  the  test  will  be 
unfair  except  as  regards  metrical  or  pictorial  merit, 
every  section  of  this  great  progressive  poem  being 
connected  with  the  other,  by  links  of  the  finest  and 
most  studied  workmanship.  Take,  for  example,  that 
noble  sonnet,  beginning 

'  We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  iu  the  skies,' 

a  more  perfect  piece  of  writing  no  man  alive  has  turned 
out ;  witness  these  three  hues,  the  greatest  perhaps  of 
the  book  : — 

'And  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth, 
Our  spirit  grew  as  we  walked  side  by  side. 
The  hour  became  her  husband  and  my  bride ' ; 

but  in  transcription  it  must  lose  the  colour  and  effect 
given  it  by  its  place  in  the  series;  the  grave  and 
tender  beauty,  which  make  it  at  once  a  bridge  and  a 
resting-place  between  the  admirable  poems  of  passion 
it  falls  among.' 

It  needs  but  to  read  this  sonnet-sequence,  or  some 
other  of  the  finer  of  Mr.  Meredith's  sonnets — Lucifer 
in  Starlight  or  The  Spirit  of  Shal'espere — or  to 
recall  lines  like  these  : — 

'  In  tragic  life,  God  wot 
No  villain  need  be  !    Passions  spin  the  plot ; 
We  are  betrayed  by  what  is  false  within ' ; 

or  these : — 

62 


THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

'  The  city  of  the  smoky  fray  ; 
A  prodded  ox,  it  drags  and  moans  ; 
Its  Morrow  no  man's  child  ;  its  Day 
A  vulture's  morsel  beaked  to  bones '  ; 

it  needs  but  to  read  such  poetry  to  feel  that  it 
follows  the  best  traditions  of  English  verse,  owing 
its  effects,  not  to  verbal  ingenuities,  but  to  simple 
gravity  of  thought,  expressed  in  words  which  follow 
a  natural  order,  whose  music  is  the  wholly  unforced 
music  of  the  greater  poets. 

The  poetry  of  Mr.  Meredith  gives  a  new  aim  to 
art,  and  demands  a  new  feeling  for  the  results 
attained  in  pursuance  of  that  aim,  and  the  altered 
conditions  essential  to  it.  But  the  lovers  of  the 
poetry  of  an  elder  day  will  not  find  it  impossible,  or 
even  difficult,  to  accommodate  their  vision  to  the 
changed  surroundings.  There  is  a  sentence  quoted 
by  Professor  Dowden  in  his  essay  from  Edgar 
Quinet,  which  seems  to  me  to  express  with  admir- 
able strength  and  conciseness  the  impressions  that 
will  finally  be  left  upon  the  reader  of  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's poetry:  'Each  day  justice  has  appeared  to 
me  more  holy,  liberty  more  fair,  speech  more  sacred, 
art  more  real,  reality  more  artistic,  poetry  more 
true,  truth  more  poetical,  nature  more  divine,  and 
what  is  divine  more  natural.* 


63 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

The  Wordsworthian  tradition  has  fared  ill  in 
poetry  since  1850.  That  tradition  lays  emphasis 
upon  the  attitude  and  habit  of  mind  involved  in 
poetic  composition,  and  thus  upon  its  substance  ; 
to  language,  however  skilfully  handled,  it  denies 
any  sufficient  virtue  to  elevate  or  of  itself  make 
poetic  the  ordinary  material  of  thought.  With 
Wordsworth  it  was  the  impassioned  and  truthful 
view  of  things  that  was  essential ;  when  that  was 
lacking,  the  '  accomplishment  of  verse '  was  a  trivial 
copy-book  matter.  Poetry  for  him  was  '  the  breath 
and  finer  spirit  of  knowledge,  the  impassioned 
expression  that  was  on  the  face  of  science,"*  and 
against  all  theories  of  '  poetic  diction,'  against  any 
effort  to  construct  poetry  out  of  words  in  the 
absence  of  the  inspiring  idea  he  had  set  his  face 
from  the  first.  The  root-conception  in  the  Words- 
worthian, as  in  the  classical  theory  of  poetry,  is 
that  the  employment  of  rhythm,  and  more  especially 
of  the  complex  rhythms  of  lyric  verse,  presupposes 
some  depth  of  meaning,  some  intensity  of  emotion 

64 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

which  prose  at  its  best  can  but  imperfectly  and 
inadequately  render.  It  is  certain  that  verse 
attracts  because  verse  is  an  intense  and  emphatic 
form  of  expression.  It  is  equally  certain  that  verse 
disappoints  and  wearies,  save  in  the  way  of  parody 
or  comedy,  when  there  is  nothing  intense  or  em- 
phatic to  express ;  when  an  attempt  is  made  to 
transmute  the  trite,  the  fanciful,  or  the  common- 
place, to  disguise  them  in  the  robes  of  sovereign 
thought,  or  of  sovereign  emotion,  by  tricking  them 
out  in  metrical  dress.  If  it  were  possible  to  consti- 
tute a  Supreme  Court  of  Appeal  in  matters  poetic 
before  which  aspirants  for  the  poet's  bays  were 
compelled  to  appear,  such  a  court  would  perhaps  do 
no  great  injustice  by  requiring  from  each  candidate 
some  work  in  prose,  not  as  an  exercise  in  language, 
but  as  a  witness  to  intellectual  or  imaginative 
power,  as  witness  to  a  way  of  regarding  things,  to 
mental  methods  at  once  rational  and  suggestive,  to 
types  of  thought  or  feeling  for  the  perfect  repre- 
sentation of  which  verse  was  the  natural  and 
proper  medium.  Did  such  a  court  exist,  we  should 
be  spared  the  frequent  necessity  of  the  judgment 
best  delivered  in  Heine's  words,  'Das  hattest  du 
Alles  sehr  gut  in  guter  Prosa  sagen  konnen.'  But 
the  decrees  of  such  a  court  would  condemn  not 
a  few  of  our  poets  to  the  exile  of  perpetual 
silence. 

E  6S 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Wordsworth  denied  then  that  '  poetry  can  boast 
any  celestial  ichor  that  distinguishes  her  vital  juices 
from  those  of  prose/  But  in  the  '  superlative 
lollipops'  of  his  early  verse  Tennyson  once  more 
asserted  the  indefinable  charm  of  new  and  cun- 
ning: modulations  and  verbal  melodies,  even  when 
but  slightly  informed  by  real  strength  of  thought 
or  fire  of  feeling.  The  course  of  the  later  stream 
of  poetry  has  flowed  in  other  channels  than  those 
in  which  Wordsworth  would  have  had  it  run.  The 
sovereignty  of  the  spirit  is  no  longer  recognised, 
and,  with  exceptions  few  and  honourable,  the  poets 
have  sworn  allegiance  to  Our  Lady  of  Music.  The 
poetry  approximating  to  music,  expressive  of  half- 
articulate  emotion  not  yet  definitely  yoked  with 
or  transmuted  into  mental  images, — this  poetry, 
dependent  for  such  value  as  it  may  possess  upon 
its  expression  rather  than  upon  its  spirit,  is  the 
characteristic  poetry  of  the  latter  half  of  the 
present  century.  In  Mr.  Swinburne,  its  leader, 
and  the  popular  choir,  the  view  of  things  taken 
by  the  poet,  his  philosophy,  his  imaginative  grasp 
and  interpretation  of  life  count  for  little.  In  their 
place  delicate  turns  of  phrase  are  zealously  sought 
out,  the  dainty  effects  of  collocated  vowels,  the 
ripple  of  alliteration,  the  aromas  and  the  colours 
that  fascinate  the  sense.  We  are  presented  by  the 
poets  of  to-day  with  phials  full  of  odours,  and  he  is 

66 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

the  best  poet  whose  distillations  catch  the  breath 
and  sting  the  nerves  with  the  most  pungent  per- 
fumes. Yet,  however  far  we  are  tempted  to  wander 
from  it,  the  severe  magnificence  of  pure  as  distinct 
from  decorative  art  never  fails  to  recall  us,  and 
we  know  that  to  it  the  final  success  indisputably 
belongs.  Read  but  diligently  enough  in  Mr. 
Swinburne's  many  volumes,  and  after  a  time  the 
charm  begins  to  fail,  it  ceases  to  have  its  early 
effects  :  we  are  taking  in  nothing,  we  are  simply 
marking  time  musically.  In  the  verse  of  the 
majority  of  our  poets  it  is  the  same.  Nothing 
is  to  be  found  there  that  is  not  very  pleasing, 
but  in  the  end  we  are  not  pleased. 

^  The  hungry  sheep  look  up  and  are  not  fed.' 

There  is  nothing  '  to  hold  or  to  keep,'  and  we 
recognise  that  beyond  the  marking  of  time  music- 
ally we  have  been  unemployed.  A  critic  who 
abides  by  the  Wordsworthian  tradition  essays  to 
distinguish  between  poets  by  the  internal  differ- 
ences in  their  work  due  to  divergent  mental 
methods  and  sympathies,  by  the  intellectual  and 
emotional  framework  upon  which  the  artist  builds. 
Such  a  critic  seeks  for  the  soul  of  the  work,  which 
is  the  fountain  of  its  power  ;  his  endeavour  must  be 
to  find  the  individual  character,  the  man  in  the 
poem.     He  will  recognise  a  poem  as  Shelley's  or  as 

67 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Bvron's  by  the  unmistakable  internal  evidences  of 
its  authorship,  by  the  spirit  that  is  abroad  in  it. 
In  the  poetry  of  our  own  time  what  guidance  from 
internal  evidence  is  possible  ?  The  critic  will  trace 
a  recent  poem  to  its  source  by  an  investigation 
of  the  vocabulary,  the  structure  of  the  rhythm,  and 
it  may  be  by  echoes  of  the  poetry  other  than  his 
own  read  by  the  author. 

^  They  are  past  as  a  slumber  that  passes, 
As  the  dew  of  a  dawn  of  old  time  ; 
More  swift  than  the  shadows  on  glasses. 
More  fleet  than  a  wave  or  a  rhyme.' 

We  know  this  style ;  not  by  its  heart  of  thought, 
but  by  its  parti-coloured  raiment.  The  voice  is  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Swinburne,  but  the  commonplace  is  the 
commonplace  of  the  general  choir.  Now,  in  the  case 
of  the  Di  majores  the  commonplace  is  their  own 
commonplace,  it  is  part  of  the  general  stock  that 
they  have  appropriated  and  assimilated ;  the  spirit 
that  is  abroad  in  them  shines  throughout  their 
speech. 

^  These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a  strong  siding  champion,  Conscience.' 

The  voice  is  undoubtedly  the  voice  of  Milton  ;  but 
though  no  very  great  thing  in  itself,  it  expresses 
Milton's  habitual  way  of  thought. 

68 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

'  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay. 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more. 
For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before.' 

The  voice  of  Wordsworth  not  at  his  best,  but 
Wordsworth's  intellectual  method  is  displayed  here. 
The  great  mass  of  modern  poetry  offers  on  the 
contrary  nothing  to  give  the  clue  to  any  unique 
individual  pattern  of  mind  possessed  by  the  poet. 
It  confines  itself  to  saying  nothing  in  particular 
with  delicate  perfection,  in  an  exquisite  key  of 
words.  The  office  of  most  modern  poets  seems  to 
be  that  of  carpet-minstrelsy ;  though  from  Barrack- 
Room  Ballads  one  derives  hope  for  the  future.  An 
endurino;  truth,  a  true  instinct,  lies  at  the  root  of 
Wordsworth's  theory  that  greatness  in  art  is  great- 
ness in  conception,  that  '  fundamental  brain-work ' 
is  the  secret  of  its  power.  Speaking  of  Tennyson, 
Wordsworth  struck  upon  the  weakness  which  the 
splendour  of  his  robe  of  language  not  infrequently 
concealed:  'He  is  not  much  in  sympathy  with 
what  I  should  myself  most  value  in  my  attempts, 
viz.  the  spirituality  with  which  I  have  endeavoured 
to  view  the  material  universe,  and  the  moral  rela- 
tions under  which  I  have  wished  to  exhibit  its  most 
ordinary  appearances.'  Its  most  ordinary  appear- 
ances are  for  the  true  poets  pregnant  with  meaning ; 
their  subjects  lie  ready  to  hand.^  Language  is  the 
1  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  has  found  not  a  few  that  serve. 

69 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

medium  in  which  they  work,  but  the  substance  is 
more  than  the  medium. 

And  the  subjects  of  modern  poetry,  its  criticism 
of  life  ?  How  needful  after  it  all,  as  Saint-Beuve 
would  say,  to  take  up  some  wise  book,  where 
common-sense  holds  the  field,  and  where  the  simple 
and  sound  language  is  the  reflection  of  a  delicate 
and  manly  soul !  We  exclaim,  Oh  for  the  style  of 
manly  men,  of  men  who  have  revered  the  things 
worthy  of  reverence,  whose  feelings  have  been 
governed  by  the  principles  of  good  taste  !  Oh  for 
the  polished,  pure,  and  moderate  writers!  A  little 
of  the  bracing  air  of  the  dawn  of  the  century  after 
this  enervating,  breathless  time  of  its  decline,  an  hour 
or  two  with  plain  good  sense  and  simple  diction  and 
human  beings  that  belong  to  the  real  world  ! 

Than  such  exclusive  devotion  to  form  as  is  con- 
spicuous in  the  Victorian  era  there  is  no  surer  sign 
of  the  absence  of  inspiring  motive  and  imaginative 
wealth.  '  Es  ist  immer  ein  Zeichen  einer  unpro- 
ductiven  Zeit,''  said  Goethe,  '  wenn  die  so  ins  Klein- 
liche  des  Technischen  geht,  und  eben  so  ist  ein 
Zeichen  eines  unproductiven  Individuums,  wenn  es 
sich  mit  dergleichen  befasst."'^     No  large  canvas  is 

1  '  A  second  invaluable  merit  which  I  find  in  Wordsworth  is 
this  :  he  has  something  to  say.  Perhaps  one  prizes  this  merit  the 
more  as  one  grows  old,  and  has  less  time  left  for  trifling.  Goethe 
got  so  sick  of  the  fuss  about  form  and  technical  details,  without 
due  care  for  adequate  contents,  that  he  said  if  he  were  younger  he 

70 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

attempted   even   by   the    successful    artists.      How 
often    has    it    been    lamented,    for    example,   that 
the    great   series    of    English    historical    portraits 
begun    but    left    unfinished   by    Shakespeare   have 
not     attracted     the     poets     who     followed     him. 
Tennyson,  it  is  said,  was  of  opinion — an   opinion 
apparently  abandoned  later — that  the  great  sub- 
jects had  all  been  treated  and  were  exhausted,  and 
chose   for   himself   the    artistic    embellishment    of 
slighter   themes.      But   the    confession,   though    a 
proof  of  individual  weakness,  afterwards  confirmed, 
has  no  warrant  in  reality.     It  was  not  prompted  by 
a  judgment  of  insight.     In  Browning's  Ring  and 
the  Bool',  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere's  Mari/  Tudor,  and 
Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere's  Alexander  the  Great,  we  have 
abundant  confirmation  of  the  opposite  view,  which 
finds  in   the    o-reat  artist   sufficient   cause   for  the 
great  work.      When   lesser  men    complain  of  the 
cramping  influences  of  the   age,  of  the  blighting 
conditions,  the  unpropitious  environment,  the  great 
work  is  unexpectedly  produced,  and  the  apparently 
impossible  is  achieved.     It  is  of  the  very  nature  of 
genius  to  achieve  the  unexpected,  the  impossible — 
for  other  men. 

Little  encouragement  as  there   is  in  these  days 

should  take  pleasure  in  setting  the  so-called  art  of  the  new  school 
of  poets  at  naught,  and  in  trusting  for  his  whole  effect  to  his  having 
something  important  to  say.' — M.  Arnold. 

71 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

for  those  Musas  severiores  qui  colunt,  yet  to  read 
-the  poetry  of  our  own  times  is  a  species  of  intel- 
lectual necessity,  and  hence  perhaps  the  vein  of 
indignation  in  certain  minds  arising  out  of  personal 
disappointment.  Some  of  us,  like  Tantalus,  sick 
with  hunger  and  thirst,  yet  never  able  to  satisfy 
our  appetites,  become  somewhat  irascible.  That 
poetic  representations,  estimates,  interpretations  of 
the  life  and  thought  and  movement  of  the  world  in 
which  we  are  active  agents  as  well  as  spectators, 
with  which  we  are  naturally  most  in  sympathy,  and 
of  compulsion  have  exclusively  to  do, — that  these 
are  needful  for  us  we  feel  keenly.  In  each  age  too 
there  are  revised  estimates  of  the  persons,  the 
intellectual,  moral,  and  spiritual  tendencies,  and  the 
actions  and  movements  of  past  ages;  and  with 
many  of  these  the  poet  alone  is  competent  to  deal. 
It  is  therefore  no  fictitious  demand  which  each 
succeeding  epoch  makes  for  a  poet  to  express  its 
deepest  convictions.  The  great  poets  doubtless  are 
for  all  time,  but  to  be  without  powerful  poetical 
interpreters  in  the  present  is  a  want  in  the  age  for 
which  no  excellence  in  the  poetry  of  the  past  can 
compensate.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  thousand  times 
better  to  confess  our  wants  than  to  suffer  ourselves 
to  be  deluded  miserably  by  the  fashionable  '  make- 
believe'  criticism,  that  will  persuade  us  in  terms  of 
insolent  assertion  that  half  the  respectable  verse- 

72 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

writers  of  the  day  are  great  poets.  The  daily  '  dis- 
coveries'  of  'great  poets'  by  the  '  eminent  critics-' 
of  the  literary  journals — do  they  not  wake  the  an- 
cestral savao-e  in  the  blood  ? 

But  though  the  Wordsworthian  tradition  has 
fared  ill  at  the  hands  of  the  majority,  it  has  been 
carried  on,  and  nobly.  In  the  poetry  of  the  de 
Veres,  father  and  son,  there  is,  indeed,  a  richer 
mine  of  inspiring  thought,  a  subtler  vein  of  reflec- 
tion, a  wider  dramatic  range,  a  purer  sensibility,  and 
a  simpler,  more  forcible  diction  than  in  the  work  of 
perhaps  any  living  poet.  To  escape  from  the  region 
occupied  by  the  poets  who  are  fanciful  rather  than 
imaginative,  striking  rather  than  truthful,  brilliant 
in  restatement  of  the  ordinary  poetic  sentiment 
rather  than  illuminating, — to  escape  '  the  thirst 
after  outrageous  stimulation,'  if  we  read  the  poetry 
of  to-day,  it  must  be  that  of  Mr.  de  Vere.  Take 
almost  at  random  a  passage  in  Alexander  the  Great 
to  illustrate  the  spontaneous  elastic  expression  of 
fine  thought,  the  larger  utterance  that  distinguishes 
Mr.  de  Vere  from  his  contemporaries.  Craterus 
describes  the  character  of  Alexander  : — 

'  He  wills  not  opposition  to  his  will. 
Since  first  he  breathed  this  Asian  air  of  kingship. 
Divinity  of  kings  hath  touched  him  much  ; 
First  in  his  blood  it  played  like  other  lusts  ; 
It  mounted  next  to  fancy's  seat,  and  now 
His  eye  usurping  purples  all  his  world.' 

73 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Or  take  the  same  speaker's  description  of  Ptolemy  : — 

'  A  speculative  man  that  knows  not  men^ 
A  man  whose  blood  flows  sweetly  through  his  veins. 
Leaving  at  every  point  a  sleepy  pleasure 
That  needs  must  overflow  to  all  our  race 
In  vague  complacent  kindness.     All  his  thoughts 
In  orbits  as  of  planets  curving  go. 
And  grasp,  like  them,  blank  space.     Your  minds 

majestic, 
Like  Ptolemy's,  are  oft  but  stately  triflers. ' 

How  unlike  the  twitterings  to  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed !  This  is  a  manner  distinctive  and  fine  in 
itself,  the  instrument  of  a  mind  at  once  subtle 
and  comprehensive,  at  home  in  the  region  of 
human  heart  and  life. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere,  who  was  a  contemporary 
of  Byron  and  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  ^  at  Harrow,  was 
like  Wordsworth,  his  friend,  cradled  into  poetry 
by  Nature,  amid  the  same  scenes  as  that  poet, 
beside  the  '  peaceful  mountain  stream '  that  flows 
from  Grasmere  and  Rydal  into  Windermere — the 
Rotha.  But  human  nature  claimed  him  and  the 
historia  spectahilis  of  the  drama.  Julian  the 
Ajyostate  and  The  Duke  of  Mercia  were  his  first 
considerable  compositions ;  Mary  Tudor ^  by  far 
his  greatest  work,  was  not   published   until   after 

^  Peel  on  one  occasion,  '  to  save  his  friend  trouble,  wrote  a 
copy  of  Latin  verses  so  good  that  the  "fine  Roman  hand"  was 
well-nigh  detected,  and  the  two  boys  with  difficulty  escaped 
punishment.' 

74 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

the  author's  death  in  184-6,  and  as  a  consequence 
was  never  revised.  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere's  life  was 
by  no  means  wholly  devoted  to  poetry.  We  are 
told  by  his  son  that  probably  not  more  than  two 
years  of  his  life,  scattered  over  its  various  portions, 
were  spent  in  the  composition  of  his  longer  works. 
They  must  necessarily  have  occupied  his  mind  for 
more  extended  periods  of  time  than  is  here  indi- 
cated, but  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  cannot  be  regarded 
as  in  any  sense  a  poet  by  profession : — 

^His  reading  was  discursive^  military  works  inter- 
esting him  not  less  than  poetry  or  history.  From  his 
boyhood  he  had  approached  military  subjects  with  the 
ardour  of  a  soldier,  studying  campaigns  ancient  and 
modern,  with  the  aid  of  maps  as  well  as  books,  a 
habit  to  which  he  probably  owed  his  minute  geo- 
graphical knowledge,  and  a  singular  power  of  realising, 
as  a  tactician  might,  the  relative  positions  of  remote 
places.' 

By  birth  an  Irishman,  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere's 
sympathies  were  divided  between  his  native  country 
and  England,  the  home  of  his  remoter  ancestors, 
— sympathies  which  found  expression  in  his  his- 
torical sonnets  and  in  those  composed  upon  scenes 
of  natural  beauty  in  Ireland.  In  the  brief  memoir 
written  by  his  son,  which  appears  in  the  volume 
containing  Mary  Tudor,  there  is  put  on  record 
an  estimate   of  the    man    by   one  who  bent  over 

75 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

him  after  his  death, — an  estimate  which  harmonises 
well  with  any  that  can  be  passed  upon  his  poetry, 
— '  In  that  brow  I  see  three  things — Imagination, 
Reverence,  and  Honour.'  Among  the  fragments 
left  behind  him,  the  following  now  serves  as  a 
motto  to  his  work  as  a  poet : — 

'  An  if  I  be  a  worm^  mine  office  is 
Like  his  which  spins  a  thread  that  shall  attire 
The  noblest  of  the  land  ;  and  when  his  task 
Is  rightly  done^  sleeps,  and  puts  forth  again 
His  powers  in  wings  that  waft  him  like  an  angel, 
Onward  from  flower  to  flower  and  up  to  heaven.' 

It  is  a  somewhat  difficult  task  to  criticise  Sir 
Aubrey  de  Vere's  early  dramas,  a  task  made  still 
more  difficult  in  the  case  of  poems  which  can 
hardly  be  said  ever  to  have  had  a  spell  of  life  in 
public  favour.  With  many  of  the  qualities  that 
compose  distinction  and  compel  admiration,  they 
fail  to  command — as  poetry  must  do  or  drop  into 
oblivion — the  attention,  it  may  be  said,  in  its  own 
despite.  The  reader  cannot  fail  to  acknowledge 
their  power,  but  he  is  not  taken  captive.  With 
Mary  Tudor  it  is  quite  another  matter:  one 
does  not  escape  there  from  the  poefs  net;  we 
are  enmeshed  in  its  magic  toils  from  first  to  last. 
His  friends  might  well  be  content  to  rest  Sir 
Aubrey  de  Vere's  reputation  upon  his  Sonnets, 
pronounced   by   Wordsworth   'amongst   the   most 

76 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

perfect  of  our  age,"  or  upon  that  magnificent  crea- 
tion just  spoken  of,  Mary  Tudor ^  which  two  such 
different  minds  as  those  of  Mr.  Gladstone  and  the 
late  Cardinal  Manning  agreed  in  placing  next  to 
Shakespeare.  Probably  no  critical  panegyric  would 
induce  any  but  a  stray  student  of  poetry  in  these 
hurrying  days  to  read  Julian  or  The  Duke  of 
Mercia.  Yet,  if  once  read  by  him,  that  they 
would  be  read  a  second  time  is  not  improbable. 
But,  like  Southey,  the  author  seems  to  have  held 
the  unpopular  theory  that  poetry  ought  to  elevate 
rather  than  affect ;  and  his  early  dramas,  like 
Southey's  epics,  move  on  a  plane  above  that  on 
which  the  drama  of  life  proceeds  for  ordinary 
human  beings.  To  the  few  who  read  Southey's 
epics  these  dramas  can  be  confidently  recommended 
as  sustaining  like  them,  with  evident  ease,  the 
weight  of  a  difficult  subject,  and  rising  at  times 
to  incontestable  displays  of  passion  and  of  power. 

The  high  level  sustained  in  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere's 
poetry  is  one  of  its  most  striking  characteristics. 
If  not  inspiring  throughout — and  what  poet  is 
inspiring  throughout  ? — he  is  never  paltry,  and  the 
verse  moves  with  a  conscious  unflagging  dignity 
that  corresponds  to  the  grave  and  luminous  current 
of  thought  beneath.  That  so  fine  a  subject  for 
historical  tragedy  as  Mary  Tudor^  treated  with 
such  dramatic  and  poetic  force  as  Sir  Aubrey  de 

77 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Vere  possessed,  should  be  comparatively  neglected, 
suffirests  several  reflections.  It  seems  clear  that 
the  reputation  of  a  poet  must  be  built  up ;  that 
an  enduring  popular  recognition  of  his  genius  is 
impossible  unless  he  have  laid  a  foundation  broad 
enough  to  permit  of  appreciation  from  a  circle 
wider  than  the  circle  of  culture.  For,  after  all, 
it  is  not  to  the  critics  nor  even  to  the  students 
that  the  gods  have  granted  the  disposal  of  fame, 
but  to  the  people.  The  average  man  is  little 
of  a  critic  in  any  eyes  other  than  his  own,  but 
upon  his  knees  lie  the  final  dooms  of  authors. 
That  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  wrote  little  poetry  which 
appealed  to  the  general  circle  of  readers  militated 
against  his  acceptance  as  a  representative  poet  of 
his  epoch.  And  indeed  he  was  not  its  representa- 
tive. His  interests  were  not  sufficiently  local  and 
temporary,  nor  in  the  fashion  of  the  time.  He 
interpreted  few  feelings,  faiths,  or  aspirations  of 
his  day,  and  thus  missed  the  path  which  Tennyson, 
in  whose  brain  the  man  of  the  world  was  not  un- 
represented, took, — the  path  that  leads  direct  to 
fame.  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  chose  too  for  his  longer 
works  a  poetic  form,  the  dramatic,  to  which  readers 
had  grown  unaccustomed,  and  by  whose  unfamili- 
arity  they  were  at  the  outset  discouraged. 

But  whether  recognised   by  the    voo'  populi  or 
not,  the  delineation   of  Mary  Tudor  ranks  indis- 

78 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

putably  as  the  finest  delineation  of  royal  character 
since  Shakespeare.  The  note  of  the  characterisa- 
tion is  that  it  presents  a  queen  who  is  a  woman, 
a  woman  who  was  also  a  queen  ;  for  royal,  with 
all  her  faults,  iNIary  Tudor  was  :  royalty  sat  visibly 
upon  the  Tudor  brow.  To  restore  womanliness  to 
that  Queen  of  England  whom  history,  as  it  was 
written,  had  presented  as  an  impossible  personifica- 
tion of  bloodthirstiness,  was  a  dramatic  aim,  noble 
in  itself,  and  in  execution  nobly  sustained.  'The 
author  of  Mary  Tudor,''  writes  ^Ir.  de  Vere,  in 
the  fine  preface  to  his  father's  play,  '  used  to  affirm 
that  most  of  the  modern  historians  had  mistaken  a 
part,  and  that  the  smaller  part,  of  the  sad  Queen's 
character  for  the  whole  of  it.'  Sir  Aubrey  de 
Vere's  conception  of  Mary's  character  deserves  con- 
sideration, not  only  as  poetic,  but  as  in  reality 
the  most  authentic  portrait  we  possess, — historic- 
ally more  correct  as  taking  in  a  larger  group  of 
facts,  and  morally  deeper  and  more  convincing  as 
consistent  with  real  human  nature.  To  it  should 
be  accorded  the  respect  due  to  greater  truthfulness 
and  insight,  as  well  as  the  admiration  due  to  a 
more  powerful  artistic  presentation  than  can  be 
found  in  any  other,  whether  painted  by  historian 
or  rival  poet. 

No   criticism  of  Mary   Tudor   can   avoid   com- 
paring   it   with    the    Queen    Mary  of    Tennyson, 

79 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

published  twenty-eight  years  later.     While  neither 
of  the  dramas  dealing  with   Queen  Mary  can  be 
charged  as  pieces  of  special  pleading,  both  attempt 
a  revision  of  the  historic  estimate  passed  in  her 
disfavour  by  popular  English  traditions.     Were  it 
necessary  to  sum   up   in  a  sentence   the   relative 
impressions  produced  by  these  companion  pictures, 
it  might  fairly  be  said,  Mary  Tudor  is  the  work 
of  a  dramatist  and  a  poet,  Queen  Mary  the  work 
of  a  poet ;  the  first  is  dramatic  in  the  fullest  sense 
throughout,  the  latter  poetic  throughout,  and  only 
in  parts  dramatic.     That  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  had 
more   of    a   native   dramatic    instinct   than    Lord 
Tennyson   cannot  be   questioned.      The   grasp  of 
character   in   his   plays  is  firmer,  the  action  and 
movement     more     inevitable,    more     highly    and 
simply  natural.     The  dramatis  personam  move  and 
speak  as  in  the  movement  and  speech  of  real  life. 
The  dialogue  is  vital,  not  a  conversation  issuing 
from    the   mouths    of    puppets;    the    groups    are 
natural   groups,  and  the  action  unfolds  itself  as 
the  necessary  outcome  of  the   circumstances  and 
characters   involved.      Nowhere   does   Sir   Aubrey 
de  Vere  fritter  away  dramatic  effects  by  indulgence 
in  prettinesses,  nowhere  seek  opportunities  for  poeti- 
cal descriptions ;  but,  when  such  arise,  the  poetry 
is  as  pure  and  sweet  as  any  in  Lord  Tennyson's 
drama.     Take  this  from  the  scene  on  Wanstead 

80 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Heath,  exquisite  in  itself,  and  full  of  pathos  from 
the  lips  of  the  loneliest  queen  that  ever  sat  on 
throne : — 

^  MARY. 

How  name  you  this  fair  prospect  ? 

ARUNDEL. 

Wanstead  Heath, 
By  Epping  Chase. 

MARY. 

How  blest  these  breezy  downs_, 
^Vith  purple  heath  and  golden  gorse  enamelled  ; 
Each  bosky  bank  with  dewy  windflowers  strewn_, 
Each  dell  with  cowslip  and  rathe  violet, — 
And  the  sun-loving  daisy  on  hill-tops 
Drinking  the  light !     Ah,  happy  shepherd's  life ! 
He  this  sweet  solitude,  without  constraint. 
Explores,  his  chosen  damsel  at  his  side ; 
Recounting  tales  of  love  and  plighted  faith  ; 
Or  from  his  pipe  pours  such  delicious  song 
That  the  wild  hare  in  the  close  bitten  lane 
Pauses  with  ear  erect,  and  timorous  deer 
That  down  the  labyrinthine  forest  glade 
Goes  bounding,  starts  aside,  and  turns  to  gaze.' 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere's  blank  verse  is  the  blank 
verse  of  the  English  drama, — the  panha7^monio7i,  as 
Symonds  called  it,  the  universal  instrument  as  used 
by  the  Elizabethans.  Tennyson's  blank  verse  is 
the  verse  of  the  Idylls  of' the  King,  arranged  to  suit 
dialogue.  Sweetness  and  an  ornate  beauty  it  pos- 
sesses, but  nowhere,  I  think,  the  dramatic  ring,  the 
broken  pause  of  power,  the  alternate  gravity  and 
swiftness  of  living  speech. 
F  8i 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

But  this  comparison  is  made  with  the  mind's 
eye  upon  the  first  of  the  two  dramas  that  com- 
pose the  tragedy  of  Mary  Tudor.  Sir  Aubrey's 
second  drama,  though  a  fine  work  in  itself, 
loses  by  following  the  first,  and,  if  compared 
alone  with  Queen  Majy,  might  not  without  ques- 
tion bear  away  the  palm.  The  reader  fresh 
from  a  perusal  of  the  first  play,  who  has  felt  its 
condensed  power,  finds  a  certain  diffuseness,  and 
experiences  less  distinctly  a  unity  of  impression. 
The  delineation  is  not  so  sharp  nor  arresting,  the 
action  somewhat  languid,  and,  to  some  degree, 
the  sentiment  and  thought  seem  to  return  upon 
themselves.  Had  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  lived  to 
publish  the  work  himself,  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  much  would  have  been  altered,  and  the  whole 
shortened.  The  weakness,  if  weakness  there  be  in 
the  second  drama,  is  only  weakness  by  comparison 
with  the  first.  So  fine  a  tragedy  was  produced  by 
the  author  of  the  early  part  of  the  Queen's  reign 
that  it  was  hardly  possible  to  add  another.  The 
second  play  contributes  little  to  our  knowledge  of 
Mary  :  the  horror  of  remorse  with  which  the  first 
drama  closes  is  in  itself  intensely  tragic ;  and  to 
the  tragedy  of  a  broken  heart,  the  accumulation  of 
sorrows  or  the  advent  of  death  lends  no  additional 
terrors.  After  the  scene  in  which  Mary  sees  from 
her  window  in   the  Tower  the  executioner  hold  up 

82 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

to  view  the  once  lovely  head  of  Jane  Grev,  and  the 
unhappy  Queen  cries, 

'  Pah  !  I  am  choked — my  mouth  is  choked  with  blood ! ' 

no  scene  remained  in  her  life  of  such  overpower- 
ing agony.     Life  contained  for  her  henceforth  only 

''Sorrow's  faded  form  and  Solitude  behind.' 

Marv's  failure  and  death  are  far  less  touchino-, 
fraught  far  less  with  the  '  pity  and  terror '  of 
tragedy,  than  her  remorse  in  the  moment  of  final 
triumph  over  her  enemies.  Throughout  the  first 
part,  which  opens  with  Northumberland's  plot  to 
seize  the  crown  for  his  son's  wife  and  ends  with  Jane 
Grey's  execution,  the  poet  with  the  finest  instinct 
retains  our  sympathy  for  the  Queen  no  less  than 
for  her  innocent  rival.  In  weaker  hands  the  play 
would  undoubtedly  have  become  the  tragedy  of 
Lady  Jane  Grey,  the  guiltless  victim  of  her  father's 
ambition  ;  but  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  makes  us  realise, 
and  it  is  a  dramatic  achievement  of  the  first 
order,  that  the  real  suffering,  the  weight  upon  the 
heart  which  makes  tragedy,  is  Mary's.  Lady  Jane 
suffers,  indeed,  innocently ;  but  her  whiteness  of 
soul  and  devotion  of  love  make  her  sorrows  less 
sorrowful,  and  death  a  release  from  a  w^orld  of 
troubles.  That  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  could  give 
us  such  a  picture  as  this  of  Lady  Jane's  last  short 

S3 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

interview  with  her  mother,  and  still  command  our 
deepest  grief  for  the  Queen  who  signed  her  death- 
warrant,  is  surely  a  proof  of  the  highest  tragic 
genius : — 

'  What  shall  I  give  thee  ? — they  have  left  me  little — 
What  slight  memorial  through  soft  tears  to  gaze  on  ? 
This  bridal  ring — the  symbol  of  past  joy  ? 
I  cannot  part  with  it ;  upon  this  finger 
It  must  go  down  into  the  grave.     Perchance 
After  long  years  some  curious  hand  may  find  it, 
Bright^  like  our  better  hopes,  amid  the  dust. 
And  piously,  with  a  low  sigh,  replace  it. 
Here — take  this  veil,  and  wear  it  for  my  sake. 
And  take  this  winding-sheet  to  him  ;  and  this 
Small  handkerchief,  so  wetted  with  my  tears. 
To  wipe  the  death-damp  from  his  brow.     This  kiss — 
And  this — my  last — print  on  his  lips,  and  bid  him 
Think  of  me  to  the  last,  and  wait  my  spirit. 
Farewell,  my  mother  !     Farewell,  dear,  dear  mother  ! 
These  terrible  moments  1  must  pass  in  prayer — 
For  the  dying — for  the  dead  !     Farewell !  farewell ! ' 

The  gentleness,  fortitude,  and  constancy  of  Jane 
Grey,  her  solicitude  for  her  husband's  life,  her 
quiet  acceptance  of  her  own  fate,  the  singleness  of 
purpose  and  the  beauty  of  her  character,  act  as 
a  foil  to  the  political  craft  and  pusillanimous 
shrinking  from  the  result  of  his  own  acts  displayed 
by  Northumberland,  and  no  less  to  the  stormy 
passion  and  thirst  for  revenge  in  Mary  alternating 
with  woman''s  weakness  and  remorse.  The  delinea- 
tion of  the  struggle  in  which  the  Queen's  soul  is 

84 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

tempest-tost  among  the  winds  and  waves  of  passion 
and  native  inclination,  driven  at  one  time  by  her 
imperious  will,  fortified  by  the  resolve  to  keep 
guard  over  '  the  true  cross  and  the  authentic  faith," 
at  another  swayed  by  a  passionate  craving,  a  wist- 
ful longing,  infinitely  pathetic,  for  some  real  affec- 
tion, or  by  an  inclination  towards  clemency  and 
a  milder  policy, — this  delineation  can  hardly  fail 
to  recall  the  tragic  elevation,  the  '  high  passions 
and  high  actions,**  of  the  Elizabethan  drama.  How 
finely  this  recalls  the  accent  of  an  elder  day  !  The 
Queen's  passion  is  fairly  alight,  and  the  sword  has 
been  thrown  into  the  scale  of  vengeance ;  '  the 
demon  wakes  wdthin  her  heart,"*  and  her  mood 
passes  into  frenzy  and  madness  : — 

'  MARY. 

I  want 
To  see  Jane  Grey— after  her  widowhood. 

FAKENHA3I  {ttSlde). 

After  } — She  then  shall  live. 

GARDINER  (ttside). 

Observe^  she  raves. 

MARY. 

We  '11  sit  together  in  some  forest  nook 

Or  sunless  cavern  by  the  moaning  sea^ 

And  talk  of  sorrow  and  vicissitudes 

Of  hapless  love^  and  luckless  constancy _, 

And  hearts  that  death  or  treachery  divides ! 

^Vhat  's  the  hour,''    Be  quick^  be  quick^  I  've  much  to  do. 

85 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

GARDINER. 

Just  noon. 

MARY. 

There  will  be  death  soon  on  the  air. 
With  outspread  pinions  making  an  eclipse. 
Ha  !  ha  !  brave  work  we  Queens  do  !     Destiny 
Is  in  our  hands — yea,  in  these  very  veins 
The  spirit  of  the  fatal  Sisterhood 
Riots !     The  snakes  of  the  Eumenides 
Brandish  their  horrent  tresses  round  my  head ! ' 

Of  the  minor  characters,  or  rather  the  characters 
other    than    protagonist,    Northumberland,    Jane 
Grey,  and  Cardinal  Pole  are  the  most  finely  drawn; 
and,  for  the  worthless  Philip,  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere 
compels   a   hate  akin    to  that  which   Shakespeare 
compels  for  a  stronger  though  hardly  more  hateful 
villain  in  lago.     Mary's  passion  for  Philip  cannot 
be  read  as  a  passion  real  in  itself,  but  as  centred  on 
the  only  possible  object  for  her  lifelong  repressed 
affections.     She  sought  some  outlet  for  the  sweeter 
springs   beneath    the    bitter   waters    of    her    soul. 
Gardiner    and    Cranmer   are   great  historical  por- 
traits,  worthy   of  their  place  in  a   drama   which, 
with  admirable  impartiality,  describes  a  period  so 
full  of  religious  passions,  and,  within  the  narrow 
circumference   of  its  acts  and  scenes,   depicts  the 
very  life  and   figure  of  the  times  as  no  historian 
has  given    or   ever   can    give    it, — England   vexed 

86 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

with  fierce  religious  discords  and  civil  strife, 
stained  with  innocent  blood,  aflame  with  hatreds 
as  with  martyrs'  fires, — England  in  whose  borders 
the  spirit  of  independence  of  an  already  ancient  and 
free  people  was  even  now  astir,  but  in  which  the 
various  elements  of  the  national  life  were  not  yet 
fused  and  unified  as  they  were  to  be  fused  and 
unified  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

Like  characters  drawn  by  all  great  artists.  Sir 
Aubrey  de  Vere's  portraits  are  at  once  individual 
and  typical,  at  once  persons  and  types.  To  each 
individual  belongs  a  personality  that  differs  from 
all  others  in  the  world  ;  but  it  rests  upon  a  human 
foundation,  an  understructure  which  is  the  same 
for  all  men.  It  is  no  high  artistic  achievement 
for  the  painter  to  limn  a  face  which  we  recognise 
as  in  the  abstract  beautiful,  or  to  reproduce 
features  we  know  and  recognise ;  but  to  see 
in  every  human  countenance  not  its  distinguish- 
ing lines  alone,  but  those  more  fleeting  which 
mark  a  special  type,  or  to  inform  with  human 
expression  some  abstract  ideal  of  beauty,  argues 
a  power  that  belongs  to  the  highest  imaginative, 
combined  with  the  highest  observant  and  execu- 
tive, genius.  In  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere's  portraiture 
in  Mary  Tudor  a  thoughtful  student  will  read 
the  features  not  of  individuals  alone,  but  of  indi- 
viduals who  belong  to  a  certain  age,  a  certain  epoch 

87 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

in  the  history  of  England  and  of  the  world. 
Human  and  personal,  they  are  also  racial  and 
peculiar  to  an  epoch.  Mary  and  Jane  Grey, 
English  to  the  core,  though  of  natures  widely 
differing ;  Northumberland  and  Cardinal  Pole, 
types  of  the  Englishmen  of  the  period ;  Philip,  the 
representative  of  Spain ;  and  Gardiner,  of  the 
narrower  stronger  Churchmen  whose  religion  con- 
sumed their  humanity,  and  so  on  throughout  the 
play.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  among  English 
dramas  one  which  would  serve  better  as  a  gallery, 
wherein  to  study  the  prevailing  types  of  mind 
during  the  period  of  which  it  treats,  than  Mary 
Tudor. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  is  greater  in  the  old  tradition 
of  the  drama,  in  the  representation  of  action  and 
of  character  displayed  in  action.  Mr.  de  Vere 
excels,  like  Browning,  in  the  intellectual  drama, 
the  internal  development  of  character  amid  cir- 
cumstances rather  than  its  delineation  hy  action, 
in  the  actual  conflict  and  clash  of  forces  in  the 
external  world.  Taken  together,  they  represent  the 
highest  reach  in  the  present  century,  of  the  drama 
of  action  and  the  drama  of  thought.  Of  the  drama 
of  thought,  or  the  intellectual  drama,  Hamlet 
may  serve  as  an  example,  where  the  character  of  the 
hero  displays  itself  in  the  life  of  his  mind,  rather 
than  in  the  field  of  action,  since  he  is  in  action 

88 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

uncertain  and  wavering,  and  acts  from  sudden 
impulses,  instead  of  along  definite  lines  of  policy. 
The  proper  instrument  of  the  intellectual  drama, 
which  is  mainly  concerned  with  crises  in  the  history 
of  the  soul,  seems  to  be,  as  with  Browning,  mono- 
logue, and  it  is  noticeable  that  in  Hamlet  the 
monologues  are  more  frequent  and  more  lengthy 
than  in  any  other  of  Shakespeare's  tragedies.  Mr. 
de  Vere's  method  is  somewhat  different.  In  his 
finest  play  he  makes  a  gradual  revelation  of  the 
character  of  Alexander,  largely  by  a  chronicle  in 
dialogue  of  the  impressions  made  by  his  personality 
upon  those  in  contact  with  him,  partly  by  Alex- 
ander's own  words,  and  partly  by  his  actions.  How 
admirable  is  this  w^hen  Parmenio,  King  Philip's  old 
general,  corrects  his  son  Philotas's  conception  of 
Alexander,  and  the  causes  of  his  success  in  war  ! — 

'  PHILOTAS. 

Que  half  his  victories  come  but  of  his  blindness, 
And  noting  not  the  hindrance. 


PARMENIO. 

At  Granicus- 
But  that  Mas  chance.     At  Issus  he  was  greater  ; 
I  set  small  store  on  Eg)'pt  or  on  Tyre ; 
Next  came  Arbela.     Half  a  million  foes 
Melted  like  snow.     To  him  Epaminondas 
Was  as  the  wingless  creature  to  the  winged. 

89 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

PHILOTAS. 

I  graut  his  greatness  were  his  godship  sane  ! 

But  note  his  brow  ;  'tis  Thought's  least  earthly  temple  : 

Then  mark  beneath  that  round,  not  human  eye, 

Still  glowing  like  a  panther's  !     In  his  body 

No  passion  dwells  ;  but  all  his  mind  is  passion, 

Wild  intellectual  appetite,  and  instinct 

That  works  without  a  law. 

PABMENIO. 

But  half  you  know  him. 
There  is  a  zigzag  lightning  in  his  brain 
That  flies  in  random  flashes,  yet  not  errs  ; 
His  victories  seem  but  chances  ; — link  those  chances. 
And  under  them  a  science  you  shall  find. 
Though  unauthentic,  contraband,  illicit. 
Yea,  contumelious  oft  to  laws  of  war. 
Fortune,  that  as  a  mistress  smiles  on  others, 
Serves  him  as  duty  bound  ;  her  blood  is  he. 
Born  in  the  purple  of  her  royalties.' 

If  this  be  not  in  the  manner  of  the  great  masters, 
one  might  well  be  at  a  loss  to  adduce  examples  of 
their  manner.  This  passage  serves  well  to  illus- 
trate Mr.  de  Vere's  characteristic  diction  at  its  best, 
— 'a  style,"  to  use  Matthew  Arnold's  luminous 
description  of  Wordsworth's  best  writing,  '  a  style 
of  perfect  plainness,  relying  for  effect  solely  on  the 
weight  and  force  of  that  which  with  entire  fidelity 
it  utters.'  It  is  a  diction  which  aims  at  no  sur- 
prises for  the  reader.  It  does  not  care  to  goad 
him  into  excitement  if  his  imagination  or  his 
feelings  are  dull,  and  it  thus  elects  to  suffer  com- 

90 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

parative  neglect  amongst  the  styles  of  the  day, 
which  ask  nothing  from  the  reader,  but  take  upon 
themselves  to  electrify  his  already  over-stimulated 
nerves  by  the  surprising  and  the  ostentatious. 

'  During  the  last  century,'  writes  Mr.  de  Vere  in 
his  preface  to  Alexander  the  Great,  '  it  was  thought 
philosophical  to  sneer  at  the  "Macedonian  madman,'' 
and   moral   to    declaim  against   him  as  a  bandit. 
Maturer  reflection  has  led  us  to  the  discovery  that 
"  a  fooFs  luck "  helping  a  robber's  ambition  could 
hardly  have  enabled  a  youth  but  twenty-two  years 
of  ao-e  when  he  began  his  enterprise  to  conquer  half 
the  world  in  ten  years.     The  ancients  made  no  such 
mistake.     They  admired,  and  therefore  they  under- 
stood.'   Mr.  de  Vere's  study  and  presentation  of  the 
person  and  achievements  of  Alexander  bring  before 
us  the  greatest  captain  of  the  ancient  world  with 
the  sharpness  and  reality  of  outline  that  time,  when 
counted  by  centuries,  in   despite  of  all  historical 
records  does  so   much   to   eiface.     One   imperative 
demand  is  made  upon  fictional  art — it  must  be  con- 
vincing.    And  this  whether  it  works  in  the  field  of 
pure  invention  and  reproduces  types,  or  in  the  field 
of  history,  and   clothes  the  skeleton  records  with 
flesh  and    blood.     The  creative  artist  makes  what 
we  may  call  his  only — for  it  is  his  fatal — failure, 
when  he  fails  to  be  convincing.     However  roughly 
his   material   be   handled,  however  ineffectively  he 

91 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

executes  detail,  if  the  result  leaves  the  impression 
of  reality,  if  it  convinces  the  eye  and  mind,  the 
hiohest  success  has  been  achieved.     Verisimilitude 
can  hardly  be  gained  at  too  dear  a  cost.     Because 
it  must  be  gained  at  all  costs,  an  artist  who  works 
upon  a  period  other  than  his  own  burdens  himself 
with  preliminary  study.     He  must  himself  live  the 
life  of  the  period  ;  he  must  not  only  know  its  outward 
shows,  the  dress  it  wore,  its  life  of  field  and  hearth, 
its  pomp  and  circumstance,  but  he  must  know  its 
inner  life,  sympathise  with  its  ways  of  thought,  ex- 
perience its  emotions,  and  feel  the  truth  of  its  beliefs. 
Perhaps  Mr.  de  Vere  of  all  living  men,  partly  by 
natural  affinity  of  mind  and  partly  by  reason  that 
he  is  a  poet,  has  the  closest  knowledge  of,  the  fullest 
sympathy   with,   that  period  of  European  history 
which  we  are  accustomed  somewhat  vaguely  to  de- 
nominate the  Middle  Ages.      Much    of  his  finest 
poetry  is  steeped  in  the  spiritual  mood,  and  might 
have  been  composed  in  the  environment,  of  those 
ao-es.    He  has  written  what  might  almost  be  termed 
an  apology  for  the  Middle  Ages  in  the  preface  to 
his  Mediceval  Records.      But  it  is  a  proof  of  the 
breadth  and  intellectual  range  of  his  genius,  that  he 
has  produced  no  greater  work  than  that  which  deals 
with  the  Pagan  world,  and  a  type  of  such  distinctly 
Paffan  heroism  as  Alexander.     True  it  is  that  Mr. 
de  Vere  finds  in  pride  the  great  vice  in  his  char- 

92 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

acter,  '  the  all-pervading  vice;  as  he  writes,  '  which, 
except  in  the  rarest  instances,  blended  itself  like  a 
poison  with  Pagan  greatness,  and  penetrated  into 
its  essence/     But  in   so   doing  he  is   not  judging 
Alexander  by  the  standard  of  Christian  virtue,  but 
by  a  standard  which  the  highest  minds  among  the 
ancients, such  as  Alexander's  master,  Aristotle,  might 
have  applied,  and  by  his  admiration  for  Alexander's 
heroic  and  intellectual  qualities  he  proves  for  himself 
the  possession  of  that  openness  and  independence 
of  mind  which  are  so  essential  in  j  udgments  upon 
the  persons  and  actions  of  ages  other  than  our  own. 
Broadly   human  and   sympathetic  treatment   of 
any  period,  however  far  removed  from  the  present, 
could  hardly  fail  to  be  successful  ;  but  in  Alexander 
the  Great  one's    admiration  is  claimed,  not   alone 
for  the  poet,  but  for  the  student  whose  alert  eye 
caught  sight  of  the  finer  details  and  possibilities  of 
poetic  and  dramatic  material  in  the  comparatively 
scanty  records  of  the  year  323  b.c.     From  the  hints 
in  Plutarch   Shakespeare    reconstructed   the   main 
characters    in    the    Roman    plays.      Mr.    de    Vere 
gleaned  a  like  precious   harvest  in  the  same  field, 
but  took  the  incident  which  is  in  some  respects  the 
most  interesting  in  Alexander's  life,  his  visit  to  the 
Temple   in   Jerusalem,    from    Josephus.      Of    this 
incident  Mr.  de  Vere  makes  a  poetic  and  legitimate 
use,  in  tracing  the  effect  of  the  religions  of  the 

93 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

East,  and  especially  of  the  monotheism  of  the 
Hebrews,  upon  the  imperial  mind  of  the  soldier- 
statesman.  Alexander's  sublime  idea  of  a  universal 
empire,  'redeemed  from  barbarism  and  irradiated 
with  Greek  science  and  art,'  proceeded  from  a  mind 
far  other  than  that  which  guides  the  designs  of  the 
successful  general.  As  Mr.  de  Vere  says,  'His 
intellect  was  at  once  vast  and  minute,  his  mind  was 
at  once  idealistic  and  practical,'  and  he  was  keenly 
susceptible  of  the  reality  and  moral  depth  of  the 
religions  held  by  the  peoples  whom  his  genius  over- 
threw. But  Alexander's  pride  of  power,  ministered 
to  by  a  dazzling  series  of  successes,  choked  the 
spiritual  fountains  of  his  nature.  So  self-centred 
he  stands,  even  in  his  moments  of  doubt,  and  in  the 
company  of  his  only  friend  Hephestion,  that  his 
thought  cannot  travel  beyond  the  circle  of  the  one 
supreme  ambition  of  his  life.  From  the  religions  of 
the  conquered  peoples  he  extracts  material  to  feed 
his  quenchless  pride  ;  or,  if  that  be  impossible,  he 
can  at  least,  by  resource  to  scepticism,  set  aside 
their  appeals  to  higher  ideals,  and  at  the  worst  he 
can  cut  the  tangled  knot  with  his  resistless  sword. 

'  This  only  know  we^ 
We  walk  upon  a  world  not  knowable 
Save  in  those  things  which  knowledge  least  deserve. 
Yet  capable,  not  less,  of  task  heroic. 
My  trust  is  in  my  work  ;  on  that  1  fling  me. 
Trampling  all  questionings  down.' 

94 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

The  many  aspects  of  Alexander's  character,  beside 
that  of  its  overmastering  pride,  his  poetic  mysticism, 
soldierly  decision,  statesmanlike  foresight,  consum- 
mate coolness  and  dexterity,  passion  and  ardour, 
subtlety,  and  an  instinct  almost  animal,  are  all 
revealed  by  Mr.  de  Vere  in  firm  but  delicately  con- 
trived strokes ;  and  much  more  than  these.  How 
much  of  insight  he  gives  us  into  the  heart  of  the 
man  in  this  contemptuous  reference  to  Philotas, 
whom  he  has  put  to  death  on  a  suspicion  of  treason 

unproven  ! — 

'  I,  in  his  place. 
Had  ta'en  small  umbrage  at  my  days  abridged  : 
There  lived  not  scope  nor  purpose  in  his  life 
Which  death  could  mar.' 

How  affectingly,  and  with  what  exquisite  appropri- 
ateness of  scene,  does  Mr.  de  Vere  introduce  us  to 
the  only  expression  of  Alexander's  feelings  which 
were  not  wholly  centred  in  himself!  With 
Hephestion  Alexander  visits  the  tomb  of  Achilles, 
and  anoints  the  pillar  that  marks  the  grave ; 
Hephestion  lingers : — 

' ALEXANDER. 

The  night  descends. 
Hephestion,  I  depart.  — You  tarried  ; — wherefore  } 

HEPHESTION. 

For  justice's  sake  and  friendship's.     Is  there  room 
For  nothings  then^  but  greatness  on  the  earth  ? 
I  crowned  that  other  tomb. 

95 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

ALEXANDER. 

What  tomb  ? 

HEPHESTION. 

It  stood 
Close  by,  the  loftier  ; — greater  love  had  raised  it ; — 
Patroclus'  tomb. 

ALEXANDER. 

'Tis  strange  I  marked  it  not. 

HEPHESTION. 

These  two  were  friends. 

ALEXANDER. 

Ay  !  nor  in  death  divided. 

HEPHESTION. 

Therefore,  despite  that  insolent  cynic  sect^ 
The  gods  have  care  for  things  on  earth. 

ALEXANDER. 

Hephestion  ! 
That  which  Patroclus  to  Achilles  was 
Art  thou  to  me — my  nearest  and  mine  inmost. 
In  them^  not  lives  alone,  but  fates  were  joined  ; 
Patroclus  died,  Achilles  followed  soon.' 

The  character  of  Alexander,  whose  '  one  human 
affection,'  his  friendship  for  Hephestion,  '  did  not 
escape  the  alloy'  of  pride,  has  an  historic  and 
philosophical  interest;  that  of  Hephestion  an 
interest  more  near,  human  and  personal.  Without 
Hephestion  the   drama   could  not  but  have    lain 

96 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

somewhat  outside  the  realm  of  ordinary  human 
nature,  so  far  removed  are  Alexander's  character 
and  achievements  from  those  possible  for  the 
average  man.  But  in  the  juxtaposition  of  these 
two  figures  Mr.  de  Vere  has  produced  a  striking 
contrast  of  wide  intellectual  and  moral  bearings. 
Alexander  touches  earth  in  his  love  for  his  friend ; 
Hephestion  is  ennobled  by  his  preservation  of  every 
virtue,  especially  those  distinctively  Christian,  of 
simplicity  and  humility,  like  Marcus  Aurelius,  even 
on  the  steps,  as  we  may  say,  of  an  imperial  throne. 
Alexander,  like  another  Achilles,  gathers  around 
his  person  all  the  glories  of  intellect  and  of  power 
which  make  him  an  incarnation  of  almost  divine 
greatness;  and,  like  Achilles,  the  dazzling  bright- 
ness of  his  day  is  in  imagination  still  more  bright, 
because  the  night  of  death  descended  upon  it  all  too 
soon  and  sudden,  with  no  twilight  interspace  of 
lessening  greatness  to  prepare  the  eye.  Alexander 
may  stand  for  us  as  the  supreme  power  of  intellect, 
soaring  in  contemplation,  resistless  in  action,  and 
the  worshippers  of  mind  could  hardly  enthrone  a 
greater  deity  chosen  from  among  mortals.  Hephes- 
tion, around  whose  head  play  less  dazzling  lights 
than  those  of  imperial  intellect  and  power,  is  a  type 
of  moral  grandeur,  of  the  beauty  of  virtue.  Mr. 
de  Vere's  design  in  this  contrast  was  doubtless 
to  make  comparison  between  the  Greek  and  the 
G  97 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Christian    ideals,   the  glory   of  the  mind  and  the 
greater  glory  of  the  soul. 

It  is  barely  conceivable  that  any  careful  student 
of  this  drama  can  assign  to  it  a  place  second  to  any 
produced  in  the  nineteenth  century.     Nearly  all  the 
great  poets  of  the   century   have  essayed  drama; 
almost  without  exception  they  have  failed.     Scott's 
genius,    supreme   in    narrative   fiction,  proved  too 
discursive  for  dramatic  bounds.     Wordsworth  failed 
because  his  intellect  was  contemplative,  out  of  any 
close  sympathy  with  action.     Coleridge,  metaphy- 
sician  and   mystic   though    he    was,    came    nearer 
success,    but    did    not   reach    it.     Byron    was   too 
rigidly  confined  within  the  iron  circle  of  his  own 
personality  to  succeed  in  dramatic  characterisation. 
Landor   produced   with    the   statuary's   art    noble 
groups  of  men  and  women,  but  could  not  call  them 
from   their  pedestals   into   breathing   life.      Keats 
rioted  in  the  glow  and  passion   of  colour  and  of 
music,  and    the  Fates   gave  him  no   lease   of  life 
wherein  to  study  the  world  that  lay  around  him. 
Shelley  achieved  success  in  one  instance,  but  his  is  a 
drama  of  hateful  night  un visited  by  the  blessed 
light  of  day.     Tennyson,  after  a  brilliant  career  in 
almost  every  other  branch  of  the  poetic  art  which 
raised  high  expectations,  gained  only  a  respectable 
mediocrity  in  this — the  highest.     The  honours  in 
nineteenth-century  drama  are  all  divided  between 

98 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Sir  Henry  Taylor,  Browning,  and  the  de  Veres,  and 
to  the  de  Veres  the  future  should  confirm  the 
laurel.  Mary  Tudor  and  Alexander  the  Great,  as 
we  have  said,  rank  side  by  side  as  the  highest 
limits  in  the  drama  of  action  and  of  thought 
reached  in  later  times.  Alexander  is  full  of  fine, 
of  memorable,  of  durable  things ;  it  is  a  poem 
large  in  conception,  noble  in  execution.  Mary 
Tudor,  less  striking  in  single  lines  and  passages, 
less  daring  in  its  subject,  has  the  processional  move- 
ment suited  to  its  subject,  and  in  harmony  with  the 
traditions  of  English  historical  drama.  Mr.  de 
Vere's  diction  is  richer  and  more  varied  than  Sir 
Aubrey's,  and  rises  in  dignity  with  the  difficulty  of 
the  theme.  Alexander's  address  to  his  troops  after 
the  mutiny  among  them  has  been  put  down,  begin- 


nmg- 


'  Ye  swineherds^  and  ye  goatherds^  and  ye  shepherds. 
That  shamelessly  in  warlike  garb  usurped 
Your  vileness  cloak,  my  words  are  not  for  you  ; 
There  stand  among  you  others,  soldiers'  sons, 
Male  hearts,  o'er  writ  with  chronicles  of  war  : 
To  them  I  speak ' — 

is  a  truly  magnificent  oration,  not  unmatched, 
however,  by  passages  from  the  same  play,  as  where 
Alexander  crowns  the  tomb  of  Achilles  and  apos- 
trophises the  dead  hero,  or  where,  looking  out 
from  the  cliff  opposite  new  Tyre,  he  sees  in  vision 
the  city  that  was  to  bear  his  name,  Alexandria. 

99 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

'  There  the  Euxine 
Thaws  in  the  hot  winds  from  the  Arabian  gulfs, 
There  meet  the  East  and  West ;  dusk  Indian  kings 
Thither  shall  send  their  ivory  and  their  gold_, 
And  thence  to  far  Hesperia  ! ' 

The  imagery  is  throughout  poetic  and  arresting, 
as  here,  where  Hephestion  speaks  of  Philotas  : — 

'  Coldness  in  youth  is  twice  the  cold  of  eld  ; 
Beneath  the  ashes  of  a  fire  burnt  out 
Some  heat  may  lurk  ;  but  from  the  unfuelled  hearth 
And  dusk  bars  of  a  never-lighted  fire 
The  chillness  comes  of  death.' 

Or  here,  where  Philotas  is  awaiting  death  after 
condemnation,  and  has  drawn  from  Phylax  an  oath 
to  revenge  him  by  the  assassination  of  Hephestion  : 

'  Remember  ! 
An  ice-film  gathers  on  my  shivering  blood. 
O  happy  days  of  youth  !    They  '11  laugh  at  me, 
A  shadow  'mid  the  shades,  as  I  have  laughed 
At  Homer's  ghosts  bending  to  victim  blood, 
A  sieve-like  throat  incapable  of  joy  ! 
Tell  me  these  things  are  fables.     I  'd  not  live 
A  second  time ;  for  life 's  too  dangerous  ! 
We  come  from  nothing  ;  and  another  nothing, 
A  hoary  Hunger,  couchant  at  Death's  gate 
Waits  to  devour  us.' 

A  critic's  duty  towards  this  play  would  be 
unfaithfully  performed  if  he  failed  to  call  attention 
to  the  fine  scenes  in  prose  which  it  contains — scenes 
which,  almost   to  a  greater  degree  than  those  in 

100 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  IJE  VERES 

verse,  fill  the  reader  with  admiration  for  the 
author's  subtle  psychological  power  and  command 
over  the  resources  of  language. 

Into  Mr.  de  Vere's  dramas,  Aleocander  the  Great 
and  St.  Thomas  of  Canterhury.,  enters  a  philoso- 
phical in  addition  to  their  historical,  personal, 
and  poetic  interest.  The  hero  of  each  figures 
forth  in  his  own  person  a  great  world  -  moving 
idea,  such  ideas  as  emanate  from  individuals  who 
stand  head  and  shoulders  above  their  fellows,  are 
in  advance  of  their  own  times,  and  often  powerful 
ao-ents  in  the  development,  so  slow  and  vet  so 
certain,  of  human  society.  To  Alexander  must  be 
ascribed  of  right  the  first  inception  of  the  idea 
which  in  our  day  has  become  the  familiar  one  of 
'the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation  of  the 
world.'  He  first  conceived  the  possibility  of  a 
universal  empire,  which  should  embrace  the  nations 
and  gather  the  whole  human  family  under  the  rule 
of  a  single  sceptre.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
he  should  conceive  it  as  a  commonwealth  or  as 
ruled  bv  anv  other  than  its  imperial  founder.  He 
would  have  thrown  the  peoples  into  the  melting- 
pot  of  his  own  ambition,  and  created  a  terrestrial 
planetary  system  of  nations,  with  himself  as  central 
sun.  But  the  magnificence  of  the  idea  is  scarcely 
marred  by  the  splendid  egotism  of  the  man,  who 
not    alone    conceived,   but    went  far   to  realise  it, 

lOI 


THE  POjJtR'Y  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

'to  make,'  in  Drydens  fine  phrase,  'one  city  of 
the  universe/ 

'  Had  he  Hved/  says  Mr.  de  Vera,  '  he  must  have 
created  it.  The  Romans,  whose  legions  with  difficulty 
resisted  the  phalanx  when  wielded  by  Pyrrhus  of 
Epirus^  must  have  sunk,  despite  the  patriotic  confidence 
of  Livy,  before  the  conqueror.  The  imperial  series 
would  then  have  been  far  otherwise  completed  ;  the 
consummating  empire,  which  resumed  all  its  prede- 
cessors, inheriting  their  gifts,  and  exaggerating  at  once 
their  good  and  their  evil,  the  virtues  that  win  power, 
and  the  earthly  aim  that  degrades  it,  would  have  been 
an  empire  of  Intellect,  not  of  Law;  and  over  its 
subject  realms  there  would  have  been  scattered,  not 
Roman  municipalities,  but  Greek  schools.' 

What  the  world  has  lost,  what  it  may  have  gained, 
by  the  early  death  of  the  world -dissolving,  world- 
creating  Macedonian,  who  shall  determine  ? 

In  the  person  of  Becket,  Mr.  de  Vere  also  repre- 
sents an  idea  of  wide-reaching  national  import- 
ance. Becket  stands  in  the  history  of  his  epoch 
as  representative  of  the  Church,  a  moral  power 
espousing  the  higher  national  interests  against 
a  tyrannous  control,  and  so  as  a  pillar  of  the 
people's  cause,  a  pioneer  in  the  movement  towards 
true  freedom  and  the  higher  civilisation.  As  a 
reformer  of  clerical  abuses,  one  indeed  regarded  in 
his  own  day  as  secular  in  his  views,  and  as  defender 
of  the  Church  against  the  Crown,  he  was  in  reality 

1 02 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

the  upholder  and  guardian  of  the  cause  of  liberty, 
so  hardly  won  in  council-hall  and  tented  field  by 
the    people     of    England    from    their    hereditary 

kings. 

The  poetry  of  Mr.  de  Vere,  to  one  fresh  from 
the   perusal  of  modern  verse,  seems  almost  over- 
weio-hted,  overcharo;ed  with  thought.      The  error, 
if  error  there  be,  lies    certainly  in   excess  rather 
than  deficiency ;  he  sows  less  with  the  hand  than 
with  the  whole  sack.     Or  it  might  be  more  truth- 
fully said  that  the  fault  is  in  over-refinement,  such 
refinement  as  can  hardly  be  censured  in  itself,  but 
is  rarely  achieved  without   expansion   beyond  the 
limits    of   emphasis,  or   without   sacrifice    of  that 
breadth  of  effect  which  is  essential  to  the  highest 
beauties    of   verse.      But   though    refined   beyond 
necessity,  the   informing  ideas   of  his  poetry  are 
never  abstract,  but  spring  spontaneously  from  some 
ground   of    universal    experience,    and   are    vitally 
connected  with  human  feeling  and  the  real  world. 
Like  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth,  it  lives  and  moves 
in  the  peopled   city   of  the  pure  humanities,  not 
in  the  world  of  phantasy,  derived,  it  may  be,  from 
ancient  legend  or  saga,  where  we  are  '  housed  m 
dreams.'     It  is  poetry  whose  source  is  very  near 
the  heart,  whose  appeal  needs  not  therefore  to  be 
couched  in  the  language  of  exaggeration,  so  simple, 
direct,  and  winning  are  the  truth  and  justice  of 

103 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

its  natural  claims.  As  with  Wordsworth,  too,  the 
level  of  Mr.  de  Vere's  verse  is  determined  by  its 
immediate  subject ;  as  the  wind  of  inspiration  blows 
strongly  or  faintly  the  verse  rises  or  falls,  but  it 
must  be  noticed  that  the  language  remains  the 
same  throughout;  it  is  never  by  trick  of  phrase 
or  cunning  effects  of  word-melody  that  Mr.  de 
Vere's  poetic  power  displays  itself.  The  subjects 
of  which  he  makes  choice  are  subjects  upon  which 
he  feels  strongly  and  treats  for  their  own  sake, 
not  merely  such  as  afford  facilities  for  poetic 
handling  or  the  production  of  surprising  beauties, 
that  we  may  be  induced  to  exclaim,  '  How  ingeni- 
ous an  artist ! '  It  is  poetry  not  by  reason  of 
its  ornate  splendour,  but  because  its  thoughts 
are  sincere,  its  impulses  spontaneous,  its  passion 
authentic. 

It  has  been  already  observed  that  the  poetry  of 
the  de  Veres  is  characterised  by  its  independence 
of  contemporary  fashion,  than  which  there  are  few 
surer  tests  of  true  poetic  genius.  This  alone  gives 
interest  to  their  work  apart  from  success  in  the 
dramatic  form,  a  form  in  which  the  representative 
poets  of  the  century  fell  short.  There  is  yet  another 
field  of  poetry,  cultivated  indeed  by  many  modern 
poets,  but  by  few  among  the  greatest  with  eminent 
success,  in  which  the  de  Veres  have  attained  a  notable 
mastery.     Minds  of  the  discursive  order,  like  Words- 

104 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

worth's,  working  in  the  medium  of  measured  lan- 
guage, are  apt  to  run  on  to  undue  lengths,  to 
spread  their  thought  over  too  large  a  surface. 
For  this  reason  Mr.  de  Vere,  like  Wordsworth,  is 
indisputably  at  his  best  in  the  poems  composed 
in  fixed  forms ;  in  the  drama,  because  compression 
is  essential,  and  in  'the  sonnet's  scanty  plot  of 
ground,'  where  prolixity  is  impossible.  A  poet 
who  is  exclusively  a  poet,  whose  business  in  life 
is  poetry,  naturally  pours  into  verse  all  his  impres- 
sions of  life,  makes  the  Muse  his  confidante  in 
small  matters  as  in  great.  But  enduring  poetry 
is  occasional :  it  comes  into  being  at  unexpected 
moments  only  when  a  perfect  balance  of  mind  and 
heart  are  attained,  when  speech  and  idea  are  in 
the  closest  harmony.  Throughout  a  long  poem  it 
is  barely  possible  that  this  perfect  harmony  can 
remain  unbroken.  A  strict  form,  such  as  that  of 
the  drama  or  the  sonnet,  seems  to  aid  some  poets, 
compelling  them  to  a  severer  guard  over  them- 
selves than  they  care  to  exercise  when  moving  in 
freer,  more  liberal  forms.  In  the  art  of  sonnet- 
writing  Mr.  de  Vere  inherited  to  the  full  his 
fathei's  genius.  If  less  massive  than  the  sonnets 
of  Sir  Aubrey,  Mr.  de  Vere's  are  as  delicately 
chiselled,  are  more  varied  in  melody,  and  embrace 
a  wider  range  of  subject.  Of  his  father's  sonnets, 
some  by  their  weight  of  thought  and  correspond- 

105 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

ing  dignity  of  movement  remind  us  of  the  organ 
note  to  be  heard  in  Milton's 

'  Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Kniglit  at  Arms,' 

or  in  his 

'  Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints ' ; 

while  in  singleness  or  unity  of  effect,  in  chaste 
beauty  of  language,  others  can  best  be  compared 
with  Wordsworth's.  Of  the  one  hundred  sonnets 
in  the  volume  published  in  1875,  many  deal  with 
aspects  of  scenery,  in  the  main  Irish ;  some  may 
be  classed  among  poems  inspired  by  patriotism, 
others  among  those  inspired  by  religious  feeling. 
Take  this  as  an  example  of  the  grave  splendour 
for  which  almost  all  are  conspicuous  : — 

GOUGAUN    BaRRA. 

'  Not  beauty  which  men  gaze  on  with  a  smile, 
Not  grace  that  wins,  no  charm  of  form  or  hue. 
Dwelt  with  that  scene.     Sternly  upon  my  view. 
And  slowly — as  the  shrouding  clouds  awhile 
Disclosed  the  beetling  crag  and  lonely  isle — 

From  their  dim  lake  the  ghostly  mountains  grew. 
Lit  by  one  slanting  ray.     An  eagle  flew 
From  out  the  gloomy  gulf  of  the  defile, 
Like  some  sad  spirit  from  Hades.     To  the  shore 
Dark  waters  rolled,  slow  heaving,  with  dull  moan  ; 
The  foam-flakes  hanging  from  each  livid  stone 
Like  froth  on  deathful  lips  ;  pale  mosses  o'er 
The  shattered  cell  crept,  as  an  orphan  lone 
Clasps  his  cold  mother's  breast  when  life  is  gone. ' 

1 06 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Or  this,  as  representative  of  the  sonnets  dealing 
with  national  themes  : — 

The  True  Basis  of  Power. 
^  Power's  footstool  is  Opinion^  and  his  throne 
The  Human  Heart ;  thus  only  kings  maintain 
Prerogatives  God-sanctioned.     The  coarse  chain 
Tyrants  would  bind  around  us  may  be  blown 
Aside_,  like  foam_,  that  with  a  breath  is  gone  : 
For  there 's  a  tide  within  the  popular  vein 
That  despots  in  their  pride  may  not  restrain^ 
Swoln  with  a  vigour  that  is  all  its  own. 

Ye  who  would  steer  along  these  doubtful  seas^ 
Lifting  your  proud  sails  to  high  heaven,  beware  ! 

Rocks  throng  the  waves,  and  tempests  load  the  breeze  ; 
Go  search  the  shores  of  History — mark  there 

Tlie  Oppressor's  lot^  the  Tyrant's  destinies  ; 
Behold  the  wrecks  of  ages,  and  despair  ! ' 

Mr.  de  Vere,  in  his  memoir  of  his  father,  tells 
us  that 

'  The  somiet  was  with  him  to  the  last  a  favourite  form 
of  composition.  This  taste  was  fostered  by  the  mag- 
nificent sonnets  of  Wordsworth,  whose  genius  he  had 
early  hailed,  and  whose  friendship  he  regarded  as  one 
of  the  chief  honours  of  his  later  life.  For  his  earlier 
sonnets  he  had  found  a  model  chiefly  in  the  Italian 
poets,  especially  Petrarch  and  Fihcaja.  Like  Filicaja 
also,  who  so  well  deserved  the  inscription  graven  on 
his  tomb,  '^qui  gloriam  literarum  honestavit,"  he 
valued  the  sonnet  the  more  because  its  austere  brevitv, 
its  severity,  and  its  majestic  completeness  fit  it  especi- 
ally for  the  loftier  themes  of  song.' 

It   may    be    remarked,    however,  that   the    sonnet 

107 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

has  been  in  recent  years  so  assiduously  cultivated 

as  a  poetic  form,  so  much    careful  attention  has 

been  o^iven  to  the  minutest  details  of  its  structure, 

and,  as  a  result,  such   metrical  perfection  is  now 

required  of  the  writer  of  sonnets,  that  many  of  Sir 

Aubrey  de  Vere's  most  finished  poems  in  this  form 

might   from    one   point    of    view    be    regarded    as 

inferior   to    those    of  poets   not    comparable  with 

him.     Mr.  de  Vere  had  the  advantage  of  experience 

not  open  to  his  father,  and  his  work  has  perhaps 

gained  in  technical  qualities.      He  is  best  known 

probably  as  a  sonneteer,  and  it  will  be  sufficient, 

therefore,  to  quote  two  from  his  many  faultless  poems 

cast  in  this  mould.     The  first  is  very  characteristic 

of  the  refinement,  the  grave  wisdom,  the  stateli- 

ness  of  his  mind. 

Sorrow. 

'  Count  each  affliction^,  whether  light  or  grave, 
God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee  ;  do  tliou 
With  courtesy  receive  him  ;  rise  and  bow  ; 

And  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold,  crave 

Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave  ; 
Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast ;  allow 
No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow. 

Or  mar  thy  hospitality  ;  no  wave 

Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 

The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness  ;  grief  should  be 

Like  joy,  majestic,  equable,  sedate; 

Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free  ; 

Strong  to  consume  small  troubles,  to  commend 

Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts  lasting  to 
the  end.' 

io8 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

The  following  in  a  different  key  displays  the 
ample  sweep  of  his  imagination  : — 

The  Sux-God. 

'  I  saw  the  Master  of  the  Sun.     He  stood 

High  in  his  luminous  car^  himself  more  bright ; 

An  archer  of  immeasurable  might : 
On  his  left  shoulder  hung  his  quivered  load  ; 
Spurned  by  his  steeds  the  Eastern  mountains  glowed  ; 

Forward  his  eager  eye,  and  brow  of  light 
He  bent ;  and  while  both  hands  that  arch  embowed, 

Shaft  after  shaft  pursued  the  flying  night. 
No  wings  profaned  that  god-like  form  ;  around 

His  neck  high-held  an  ever-moving  crowd 
Of  locks  hung  glistening  ;  while  such  perfect  sound 

Fell  from  his  bowstring,  that  th'  ethereal  dome 
Thrilled  as  a  dewdrop,  and  each  passing  cloud 

Expanded,  whitening  like  the  ocean  foam.' 

I  have  dwelt  thus  long  upon  the  dramatic 
quality,  the  solidity  of  substance,  the  wealth  and 
melody  of  language  to  be  found  in  ]\Ir.  de  Vere's 
poetry,  because  it  seems  to  be  popularly  supposed 
that  he  is  a  poet  of  purely  meditative  mood  whose 
sympathies  are  almost  exclusively  engaged  with 
aspects  of  religious  faith  or  aspiration.  Nothing 
could  be  further  from  the  truth.  In  the  work  of 
the  poetic  sire  and  son  alike  there  is  a  healthv 
variety  of  interests,  a  hearty  appreciation  of  all 
that  can  gladden  or  beautify  or  ennoble  life,  a 
fulness  of  pulse  such  as  rarely  beats  in  the  poetry 
of  mature  life,  and  is  conspicuously  absent  in  the 

109 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

pessimistic  period  we  have  lately  traversed.  The 
enthusiasms  of  Mr.  de  Vere's  nature  have  free 
course;  its  joys  and  sorrows,  noble  in  themselves, 
have  a  noble  outpouring  in  his  verse,  and  not 
seldom  does  it  render  with  perfect  fidelity  the 
inmost  cry  of  the  heart — 

^  When  the  ploughshare  of  deeper  passion 
Tears  down  to  our  primitive  rock.' 

Next  to  Browning's,  Mr.  de  Vere's  poetry  shows, 
it  may  be  said  without  exaggeration,  the  fullest 
vitality,  resumes  the  largest  sphere  of  ideas,  covers 
the  broadest  intellectual  field  since  the  poetry  of 
Wordsworth.  But  with  his  versatility  of  manner 
and  wealth  of  ideas  he  has  not  combined  that 
poetic  parsimony  which  gives  only  of  its  best,  and 
which  has  its  reward  at  the  hands  of  time.  Had 
he  been  less  facile,  it  is  probable  that  his  reputation 
as  a  poet  would  have  been  higher.  Only  the  diligent 
student  of  poetry  cares  to  discover  for  himself  the 
pleasantest  places  in  a  poet's  garden.  If  it  be  a 
garden  so  carefully  cultivated  as  that  of  Gray  or 
Tennyson,  where  every  inch  of  ground  has  been 
scrupulously  tended,  where  the  poet  has,  to  change 
the  metaphor,  been  his  own  editor  and  made  his 
own  selections,  the  visitors  will  be  more  numerous 
and  the  critics  disarmed  ere  they  enter  the  sacred 
enclosure.     With  poets  like  Browning  and  Words- 

IIO 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

worth,  the  part  is  often  greater  than  the  whole,  and 
in  these  days  of  many  writers  only  the  choicest 
work  of  an  author  can  hope  for  survival.  Most  of 
the  poets  of  our  own  times  and  those  to  come  will 
be  read  only  in  anthologies,  and  brief  space  will  be 
granted  to  few  among  them  save  the  highest.  Were 
a  judicious  selection  made  from  Mr.  de  Vere's  poetry 
— neither  of  the  two  already  published  is  in  all 
respects  satisfactory — the  critic  of  the  future  will 
view  with  some  astonishment  a  verdict  of  the 
present  which  ranks  before  it  a  volume  by  any 
living  writer. 

It  has  been  sufficiently  proved  that  Mr.  de  Vere 
is  an  original  author.  Alone  among  living  poets 
he  certainly  stands,  if  only  by  reason  of  the  strik- 
ingly impersonal  character  of  his  work.  Like  Byron 
and  Tennyson,  the  later  singers  are  rarely  success- 
ful save  when  intensely  personal,  when  they  depict 
moods  they  have  themselves  experienced.  It  will 
be  granted,  however,  that  by  far  the  highest 
triumphs  of  imaginative  art  are  achieved  by  those 
poets,  rare  indeed  in  their  appearance,  whose  sphere 
of  operation  is  not  limited  by  the  narrow  boundary 
of  a  single  life's  experience,  but  who  cast  themselves 
abroad  upon  universal  human  nature,  sound  its 
depths  and  shallows,  sympathise  with  its  multiform 
interests,  and  entering  through  knowledge  and 
native  insight  into  the  long  history  of  man,  are,  in 

III 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

a  very  positive  sense,  citizens  of  the  world  rather 
than  the  slaves  of  environment  in  any  age  or  country. 
Mr.  de  Vere  has  indeed  lived  abroad,  a  mental  life 
untrammelled  by  space  or  time,  of  singular  variety 
and  depth ;  but  perhaps  he  has  felt  himself  most  in 
unison,  and,  it  may  be,  almost  desired  to  make  his 
home  with  the  ages  which  he  characterises  as 
eminently  Christian  ages,  when  life  was  at  once 
gay  and  serious,  represented  in  one  aspect  by  Dante, 
the  most  spiritual  of  poets,  and  in  another 
by  Chaucer,  the  most  mirthful  and  human- 
hearted. 

In  these  latter  days  of  science  and  scientific  in- 
quiry, necessary  progress  has  done  much  to  remove 
into  the  region  of  discarded  legend  and  mystic 
unreality  many  of  the  largest  and  most  penetrating 
conceptions,  many  of  the  noblest  truths  regarding 
it  that  could  inform  and  illuminate  human  life. 
In  that  body  of  Mr.  de  Vere's  work  which  we 
may  call  distinctively  religious,  as  dealing  with 
the  spiritual  in  man,  he  has  chosen  for  poetic 
treatment  certain  great  spiritual  conceptions,  and 
has  illustrated  them  at  work  in  the  formation  of 
saintly  character,  producing  lovely  and  perfect  lives, 
and  as  productive  of  that  self-forgetfulness,  the 
passionate  surrender  to  the  service  of  humanity,  of 
those  who, '  loving  God,  loved  man  the  more,''  which 
shines  in   the    devoted    missionary   labours  of  the 

112 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

ancient  Roman  and  Celtic  churches.  The  gladsome 
and  luminous  wisdom,  the  child's  heart  within  the 
man's  maturer  mind,  the  quiet  yet  expectant  trust- 
fulness that  belongs  to  unquestioning  faith,  the 
intense  glow  of  an  unquenchable  fire  of  aspiration — 
these  are  but  dim  and  remote  to  us  in  a  season  that 
seems  by  contrast  the  dull  November  of  the  world. 
So  wise  are  we  grown  that  we  can  scarce  be  joyful, 
and,  though  heirs  of  all  the  ages,  can  reduce  only  a 
small  portion  of  our  patrimony  into  actual  owner- 
ship. Mr.  de  Vere  would  have  us  recover  the  ancient 
wealth  of  our  fathers,  while  we  retained  what  is 
exclusively  our  own ;  and  in  his  verse  the  neglected 
truths,  once  in  actual  possession  of  the  Christian 
peoples,  are  finely  emphasised.  In  reading  Mr.  de 
Vere's  Legends  of  the  Saxon  Saints,  Mediaeval 
Records,  and  Legends  of  St.  Patrick,  the  uppermost 
feeling  must  be — a  feeling  which  Mr.  de  Vere  was 
doubtless  desirous  of  inspiring  —  how  much  our 
material  and  scientific  progress,  our  advance  in 
civilisation,  has  cost  us.  That  there  have  been 
compensating  gains  Mr.  de  Vere  would  be  the  first 
to  insist,  but  the  loss  is  no  less  certain.  It  would 
seem  that  the  human  race  lies  under  the  blighting 
necessity  of  paying  for  its  greatest  gains  by  the 
abandonment  of  other  and  no  less  priceless  posses- 
sions. In  a  fine  poem  written  at  Lugano,  we  have 
Mr.  de  Vere's  message  to  the  present  age : — 
H  113 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

'  Teach  us  in  all  that  round  us  lies 

To  see  and  feel  each  hour 
More  than  Homeric  majesties^ 

And  more  than  Phidian  power  ; 
Teach  us  the  coasts  of  modern  life 
With  lordlier  tasks  are  daily  rife 

Than  theirs  who  plunged  the  heroic  oar 

Of  old  by  Chersonese  ; 
But  bid  our  Argo  launch  from  shore 

Unbribed  by  golden  Fleece  : 
Bid  us  Difidalean  arts  to  scorn 
Which  prostituted  ends  suborn  ! 

That  science — slave  of  sense— which  claims 

No  commerce  with  the  sky_, 
Is  baser  thrice  than  that  which  aims 

With  waxen  wings  to  fly  ! 
To  grovel,  or  self-doomed  to  soar — 
Mechanic  age,  be  proud  no  more  ! ' 

Of  that  department  of  Mr.  de  Vere's  work  dealing 
with  chivah-y,  the  lives  of  saints  and  the  records  of 
the  Christian  Church,  I  omit  a  lengthened  criticism 
with  the  less  regret  since  this  part  of  his  work  is 
most  widely  known.  To  a  volume  of  selections 
recently  published  under  the  editorship  of  Mr. 
Woodberry  an  appreciative  and  excellent  essay 
stands  as  preface,  in  which  full  justice  is  done  to 
these  Christian  poems. 

'They  succeed  one  another  as  the  poet's  memory 
wanders  back  to  the  legends  of  the  Empire  on  the  first 
establishment  of  the  faith  in  Roman  lands  and  along 

114 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

Asian  shores,  or  moves  through  mediaeval  times  with 
Joan  of  Arc  and  episodes  of  the  Cid  that  recall  Cuchul- 
lain  in  their  light-hearted  performance  of  natural  deeds, 
now  under  the  Cross.  The  beauty  of  these  separate 
stories  is  equable  and  full  of  a  softened  charm ;  but  in 
them  too,  as  in  the  Bardic  myths,  there  abides  that 
distance  of  time  which  makes  them  remote,  as  if  they 
were  not  of  our  own.  They  are  highly  pictorial;  and 
in  reading  them,  each  secluded  in  that  silent,  old-world 
air  that  encompasses  it,  one  feels  that  here  is  a  modern 
poet,  like  those  early  painters  of  pious  heart  who 
spent  their  lives  in  picturing  scenes  from  the  life  of 
Christ ;  and  one  recalls,  perhaps,  some  Convent  of  San 
Marco,  where  each  monastic  cell  bears  on  its  quiet  walls 
such  scenes  from  the  shining  hand  of  the  Florentine  on 
whose  face  fell  heaven's  mildest  light.  These  poems 
of  Aubrey  de  Vere — to  characterise  them  largely — are 
scenes  from  the  life  of  Christ  in  man ;  and  there  is 
something  in  them — in  their  gladness,  their  luminous- 
ness,  their  peace — which  suggests  Fra  Angelico,  the 
halo  of  Christian  art.' 

Before  taking  final  leave  of  Mr,  de  Vere,  I 
would  illustrate  by  one  quotation  the  felicity  with 
which  he  moves  in  lighter  and  more  lyric  measure. 
There  are  few  poets  of  the  present  generation,  de- 
spite their  almost  exclusive  devotion  to  the  lyric 
Muse,  who  can  write  more  charming  verse. 

^  In  Spring,  when  the  breast  of  the  lime-grove  gathers 

Its  roseate  cloud  ;  when  the  flushed  streams  sing. 
And  the  mavis  tricks  her  in  gayer  feathers  ; 
Read  Chaucer  then  ;  for  Chaucer  is  Spring  ! 

115 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

On  lonely  evenings  in  dull  Novembers, 

When  rills  run  choked  under  skies  of  lead. 

And  on  forest-hearths  the  year's  last  embers. 
Wind-heaped  and  glowing,  lie,  yellow  and  red  ; 

Read  Chaucer  still  !     In  his  ivied  beaker 

With  knights  and  wood-gods,  and  saints  embossed, 

Spring  hides  her  head  till  the  wintry  breaker 
Thunders  no  more  on  the  far-off  coast.' 

And  there  have  been  few  poets  smce  Coleridge 
passed  over  to  the  great  majority  who  have  touched 
a  string  which  so  nearly  recalls  the  enchantments  of 
his  magic  harp  as  Mr.  de  Vere  in  his  magnificent 
Autumnal  Ode. 

'  It  is  the  Autumnal  Epode  of  the  year  : 

The  Nymphs  that  urge  the  seasons  on  their  round. 
They  to  whose  green  lap  flies  the  startled  deer 

When  bays  the  far-off  hound. 
They  that  drag  April  by  the  rain-bright  hair. 
Though  sun-showers  daze  her  and  the  rude  winds  scare. 

O'er  March's  frosty  bound, 
Tliey  by  whose  warm  and  furtive  hand  unwound 

The  cestus  falls  from  May's  new-wedded  breast. 
Silent  they  stand  beside  dead  Summer's  bier. 

With  folded  palms  and  faces  to  the  ^Vest, 
And  their  loose  tresses  sweep  the  dewy  ground. 

A  sacred  stillness  hangs  upon  the  air, 

A  sacred  clearness.     Distant  shapes  draw  nigh  : 
Glistens  yon  Elm  grove,  to  its  heart  laid  bare. 

And  all  articulate  in  its  symmetry, 
W^ith  here  and  there  a  branch  that  from  on  high 
Far  flaslies  washed  in  wan  and  watery  gleam  ; 
Beyond,  the  glossy  lake  lies  calm — a  beam 
Upheaved,  as  if  in  sleep,  from  its  slow  central  stream. 

Il6 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

This  quietj  is  it  Truth^  or  some  fair  mask  ? 

Is  pain  no  more  ?     Shall  sleep  be  lord,  not  Death  ? 
Shall  sickness  cease  to  afflict  and  overtask 

The  spent  and  labouring-  breath  ? 
Is  there,  'mid  all  yon  forms  and  fields,  this  day 

No  grey  old  head  that  drops  ?  no  darkening  eye  ? 
Spirits  of  Pity,  lift  your  hands  and  pray — 

Each  hour,  alas,  men  die  ! ' 

We  cannot  recall  from  English  literary  history 
such  true  poetic  genius  exhibited  in  the  work  of 
both  father  and  son,  as  in  that  of  Sir  Aubrey 
and  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere.  It  is  a  unique  instance 
of  the  inheritance  of  high  poetic  power — a  power 
which,  in  another  member  of  the  family  working  in 
a  different  field,  has  displayed  itself  in  the  admirable 
translations  of  Horace  (by  far  the  most  perfect  we 
possess)  of  Sir  Stephen  de  Vere,  Mr.  de  Vere's  elder 
brother.  The  de  Vere  constellation  is  a  brio^ht  and 
arresting  object  among  the  greater  and  the  lesser 
stars  of  the  century.  The  value  of  poetry  such  as 
has  been  given  us  by  the  de  Vere  family  is  perhaps 
greater  to-day  than  ever  before.  It  recalls  us  from 
the  inconsiderable  details  which  life  and  livelihood 
impose  upon  the  majority  of  men.  It  frees  from  the 
dreary  round  of  commonplace,  from  the  mechani- 
cal, dream-like  walk  through  life.  To  take  up 
this  poetry  is  for  most  men  to  step  out  of  the 
narrow,  circumscribed  circle  of  their  daily  tasks  and 
conversation  into  free  air  under  the  open  eye  of 

117 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  DE  VERES 

heaven.  It  gives  a  clue  to  the  inner  and  seldom- 
sounded  depths  of  the  soul,  to  the  possibilities  that 
are  latent  in  the  character,  the  powers  hid  beneath 
the  surface,  it  supports  the  reason  that  follows, 
the  soul  that  aspires  towards  the  intellectual,  the 
spiritual  view  of  things.  It  fortifies,  amid  much 
that  disheartens  in  modern  life,  the  divine  spirit 
in  man. 


Ii8 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Criticism,  it  is  complained,  moves  but  haltingly 
after  the  pioneer  of  genius,  and  the  boundaries  of 
art  are   enlarged  in  its  despite.     We  have,  there- 
fore, in  criticism  a  somewhat  discredited  science. 
The  judgment  indisputably  takes   a   colour,   con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  from  the  kind  of  excel- 
lence with  which  it  is  familiar;  in   excellence   of 
an  unfamiliar  type  there  lurks  a  bewildering  and 
baffling  element.     We  are  on  the  whole  right  in 
thinking  that  the  laws   of  art  are  written  in  the 
practices  of  the  great  artists ;  we  are  right  too  in 
conceiving  the   grammar  of  criticism  as  in   large 
measure  a  system  derived  from  these  practices ;  we 
fail  when  we  assume  that  the  book  of  practices  is 
closed  and  that  the  grammar  as  it  exists  is  final. 
One   may    thus    account   for    the   great    historical 
mistakes  of  criticism,  for  its  inefficiency  in  deahng 
with  an  original  writer  who  indulges  in  novel  and 
unfamiliar   practices,    and   justifies   them    only  by 
his  results.     Criticism  like  that  of  Dr.  Johnson,  a 
criticism  of  fixed  and  external  standards  we   may 

119 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

call  it,  can  never,  even  when  supported  by  sound 
learning  and  robust  good  sense,  be  altogether  trust- 
worthy. It  is  never  free  of  the  danger  that  it 
may  be  discredited  by  the  event.  The  search  for 
a  definitive,  a  final  canon  of  criticism  must  there- 
fore be  futile ;  the  closing  chapter  of  the  history 
of  art,  like  the  history  of  language,  cannot  be 
written.  But  despair  of  finding  such  a  final  canon 
need  not  drive  us  into  the  wilderness  of  private 
tastes  and  individual  opinions.  We  may  perhaps,  in 
the  end,  attain  to  an  apparatus  criticus  which,  while  it 
formulates  a  general  demand,  will  leave  art  practi- 
cally unfettered  in  its  choice  of  methods ;  we  may 
yet  lay  down  a  system  of  criticism  which  shall  be 
possessed  of  a  touchstone  universally  applicable,  but 
free  to  enlarge  its  grammar  of  practices.  Out  of 
the  chaos  produced  by  the  flamboyant  individualism 
of  latter-day  criticism  we  may  in  time  see  an  order 
emerge,  though  no  prophet  has  proclaimed  the  day 
of  its  coming  as  at  hand.  In  the  present  state  of 
criticism  it  is  plain  that  no  view  taken  of  an  author 
possesses  any  authority  beyond  that  of  the  indi- 
vidual who  presents  it ;  there  exists  no  final  court 
of  appeal  in  matters  of  art.  Yet  when  a  writer 
has  gained  the  attention  of  a  considerable  body 
of  cultivated  opinion,  one  is  desirous,  and  naturally 
desirous,  to  test  his  performance  by  some  deep-lying 
and  permanent  principles,  to  determine  if  possible 

1 20 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

whether  his  eminence  is  real,  or  an  apparent  emin- 
ence due  to  our  proximity  to  the  object;  in  a 
word,  to  anticipate  the  verdict  of  posterity.  By 
an  imperious  intellectual  necessity  we  are  driven 
to  compare  the  achievements  of  our  own  day  and 
generation  with  those  of  the  past.  And  because 
no  other  body  of  principles  exists  which  formulates 
a  consistent  demand,  it  is  perhaps  best,  even  when 
dealino-  with  an  author  who  disregards  conventions, 
to  make  an  appeal  to  the  broad  principles  of  ancient 
art,  or  to  take  these  at  least  as  the  most  fitting 
point  of  departure  in  any  attempted  critical 
estimate.  'They  at  any  rate  knew^  what  they 
wanted  in  art,  and  we  do  not.'  For  this  reason 
Matthew  Arnold  in  his  search  for  what  was  sound 
and  true  in  poetical  art  found  the  only  sure 
guidance  among  the  ancients.  '  They  at  any  rate 
knew  what  they  wanted  in  art,  and  we  do  not.' 
We  do  not  know  what  we  want  in  art,  nor  is  it 
a  matter  of  any  importance,  w^e  seem  now^  to  be 
told  ;  we  do  not  greatly  need  to  know.  The  writer 
will  write  as  he  pleases,  and  the  business  of  the 
critic  will  be  merely  to  note  characteristics,  '  as  a 
chemist  notes  some  natural  element.'  The  author 
and  his  work  stand  to  the  critic  as  Nature  and  her 
phenomena  stand  to  the  man  of  science.  There  is 
no  room  left  for  the  expression  of  dissatisfaction, 
there  can  be  no  inequalities  in  art.     Like  nature, 

121 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

art  too  is  perfect.     '  Perfection  is  equal,'  writes  one 
of  Mr.   Meredith's    disciples,   'and    all  art  stands 
on  the  equality  of  perfection.'     How  luminous  a 
saying !     What  insight,   what  sagacity !     Here  is 
the  only  and  the  true  simplification  of  criticism, 
henceforth    to    consist   in  the  selection    of   super- 
latives, since  the    praise    of  perfection  cannot  be 
adequately  conducted  save  in    superlatives.      But 
a  writer  of  Mr.  Meredith's  calibre  is  not  served  by 
criticism    such    as   this   suited   to   the   ceremonial 
which  accompanies  the  canonisation  of  the  minor 
poet  or  the  decadent.     He  is  not  served  by  this 
inability  to  perceive  distinctions,  to  discriminate, 
to  appraise  with  justice;  he  is   not  served  by  a 
gracious  readiness  to  accept  all  art  as  on  the  equality 
of  perfection.     A  writer  of  Mr.  Meredith's  genius 
is  better  served  by  principles  of  criticism   which 
narrow  the  circle  than  by  these  sweeping  circuits 
of  magnificent  inclusiveness.      Though  his  worth 
and  influence  are  yet  uncalculated,  the  curve    of 
his  orbit  yet  undetermined,  there  is  that  about  Mr. 
Meredith   which  distinguishes    his  from  the  lesser 
writers.     He  is   very  evidently  not  of  their  com- 
pany, though  he  has  yet  to  attain  a  secure  niche 
in  the  national  imagination.     Mr.  Meredith  is  not 
the   people's   favourite,   and   no    extravagances    of 
critical    appreciation    will    ever   make    him   their 
favourite,  but  he  is  a  figure  of  sufficient  importance 

122 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

to  suggest  the  application  to  his  work  of  the 
severest  tests,  such  tests  as  need  only  be  applied 
to  writers  who  challenge  comparison  with  the  best 
literary  artists,  not  of  their  own  day  alone  but  of 
England.  And,  however  it  may  be  with  writers 
of  whom  we  think  and  speak  as  accomplished 
rather  than  creative,  questions  of  technique  are 
not  the  first  questions  that  arise  in  connection 
with  such  an  author.  An  author  who  challenges 
comparison  with  the  classics  of  our  own  or  any 
other  literature  does  so  on  broader  ground  than 
the  finish  or  perfume  of  his  sentences. 

'  Is  there  not  in  field,  wood,  or  shore  something 
more  precious  and  tonic  than  any  special  beauties  we 
may  chance  to  find  there — flowers,  perfumes,  sunsets 
— something  that  we  cannot  do  without,  though  we 
can  do  without  these  ?  Is  it  health,  life,  power,  or 
what  is  it  "^  ' 

Form  is  a  vital  matter  in  literature — it  will  not 
do  to  disregard  it,  it  is  a  vital  matter  ;  but  the 
Aristotelian  canon  lays  its  first  emphasis  upon 
form  in  the  sense  of  architectonics  rather  than  in 
the  sense  of  finish  of  detail.  And  if  we  are  to 
judge  of  Mr.  Meredith''s  achievement  by  classic 
canons,  it  is  well  for  him  that  it  is  so. 

As  a  novelist,  and  it  is  as  a  novelist  that  Mr. 
Meredith  claims  the  most  serious  attention — as  a 
novelist  he  is  a  worker  in  a  field  not  directly  re- 

123 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

cognised  in  the  ancient  world  as  a  legitimate  sphere 
for  the    literary  artist.      But  within   the  present 
century    Fiction    has    made   a   kind    of   triumphal 
progress  from  village  maiden  to   reigning  beauty 
at    the    Court.       Her    charms    compel    universal 
homage.     She  has  taken  without  protest  a  place 
beside  poetry,  the  drama,  and  history,  as  a  branch 
of  art,  hardly  if  at  all  of  inferior  dignity.     She 
has  usurped  the  place  of  these  older  literary  arts 
in  public  favour.     This  position  she  has  achieved 
while  still  in  her  artistic  youth.     She  has  enlarged 
the    sphere    of    her    influence,   and   is   likely    still 
further   to    enlarge   it,   for    she   draws    to    herself 
every  variety  of  talent,  and  offers  it  an  open  field. 
In  the  novel  we  have  the  formal  world  into  which 
much  of  the  best  creative  energy  of  the  century 
has  been  directed ;  and  in  his  choice  of  the  novel 
as  the  best  medium  for  his  own  imaginative  work 
Mr.    Meredith    followed   a   true   guiding    instinct. 
Here  the  peculiarities  of  his  methods  detract  less 
from    the  effectiveness    of   his   work   than   in    his 
poetry.       Traditions  and   conventions    are    of  less 
weight  in  fiction  than  in   any   other    department 
of  literary  art,  and  of  this  fact  Mr.  Meredith  has 
taken  advantage.      Nevertheless,   and   in    spite    of 
his    indifference    to    literary   traditions,    many    of 
the  qualities  of  Mr.  Meredith's    work   are   classic 
qualities.     The  novel  may  be  regarded  as  a  drama 

124 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

written  out  in  full  for  fireside  readers,  with  occa- 
sional comments  by  the  Chorus  in   the  person  of 
the  author.     Mr.  Meredith's  novels   are   in    every 
sense  dramas,  usually  comedies  or  tragi-comedies, 
but  essentially  dramatic  in    presentation.      If  we 
make  a  demand  upon  the  modern  noveUst  in  the 
person  of  Mr.   Meredith   such   as  was  made  upon 
the  ancient  Greek  dramatist,  a  demand  for  design, 
and   again  design,  and  yet  again  design,  we  shall 
not  find  an  absence  of  design,  we  shall  not  find 
even    a    weakness,     but    a    positive    largeness,    a 
breadth    of    design,   which   at   once    distinguishes 
him  as  a  writer  of  no  ordinary  note.     The  breadth 
of  design   in    his   works    forbids   any  question    as 
to    his    intellectual    eminence.       It    is    when    he 
attempts   to    execute   his    design    that    he    is    less 
successful.     To  anticipate  in  a  measure  what  must 
be    the    concluding    judgment    on    Mr.    Meredith, 
we  may  say  that  his  design  is  usually  noble  and 
spacious,  but   it  is  never   wholly   extricated.       It 
is  extricated  in  parts,  but  in  the  main,  hke  some 
colossal  sphinx,  it  lies  half-buried  in  the  desert  sand. 
That    Mr.    Meredith    has   not    been    altogether 
successful  is  not  indeed   surprising;    the    task   he 
has  set  himself  in  each  one  of  his  greater  novels 
is  a  task  of  vastly  greater  magnitude  than  that 
undertaken,  let  us  say,  by  Euripides  in  his  Hecuba 
or  Ion.     The  canvas  is  a  larger  one,  the  types  of 

125 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

character  more  subtle  and  complex,  the  issues  more 
involved,  the  action  no  less  important.     If  one  has 
to  complahi  that  Mr.  Meredith's  designs  are  less 
completely  extricated  than  those  of  his  predecessors 
who  have  created  the  traditions  of  art,  if  at  times 
they  are  not  in  any  respect  set  free,  it  is  only  just 
to  bear  in  mind  the  magnitude  of  his  intellectual 
undertakings.      The    character   of  Mr.   Meredith's 
drama   must   also    be   borne    in    mind.     It  is   the 
drama  of  conduct  and  of  motives,  the  inner  springs 
of  conduct;  of  character  evolved   by  varying  sets 
of  circumstances  and  amid   the  mutual  relations, 
actions,  and  reactions  of  human  life.     He  isj  be- 
sides,   the    chronicler    of    the    subtle    and    elusive 
fluctuations  of  emotion,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  feeling, 
the  alternations  of  moods  that  make  a  theatre  of 
the   human  heart.      Present  as   spectator   of  this 
subjective  play  of  swiftly  passing  moods,  he  delights 
to  publish  the  secrets  whispered  on  that  inner  stage, 
to  draw  aside  at  certain  critical  moments,  in  certain 
critical  situations,  the  curtain  that  makes  it  invisible 
to  the  physical    eye.      It  is   not  merely   what  his 
personages  do,  but  how  and  what  they  feel,  that  in- 
terests Mr.  Meredith ;  he  is  the  novelist  who  most 
faithfully  records  the  phases  of  that  inner,  partly 
even  subconscious  life  Avhich,  viewed  from  without, 
we  denominate    character    or  temperament.       The 
psychological  forest  Mr.  Meredith  is  not  the  first 

126 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

to  enter,  but  no  previous  author  has  penetrated 
it  so  deeply.  One,  and  not  the  least,  of  his  dis- 
tinctions, therefore,  is  to  have  added  to  art  a  new 
province  legitimately  reclaimed  for  future  cultiva- 
tion by  his  successors. 

In  his  methods,  too,  Mr.  Meredith,  if  not  without 
precursors,  has  pushed  beyond  the  limits  of  tradi- 
tion. He  is  content  to  indicate  rather  than  to 
describe,  to  suggest  rather  than  to  paint  a  picture, 
'  to  rouse  the  inward  vision  '  rather  than  elaborate 
a  finished  masterpiece.  These  are  the  characteristics 
which  remind  Mr.  Meredith's  readers  of  Browninsr. 
Like  Browning  he  is  content  to  depend  upon  his 
reader  to  a  larger  degree  than  perhaps  the  majority 
of  present-day  readers  are  prepared  to  bear.  Thus 
Mr.  Meredith  and  Mr.  Browning,  declining  to  pipe 
to  popular  airs,  haughtily  impose  a  test  upon  their 
audiences.  They  trust  to  the  sympathy  and  to  the 
intelligence  of  the  faithful  few,  they  make  words 
their  servants,  nor  suffer  themselves  by  any  over- 
scrupulous regard  for  form  to  become  the  slaves  of 
their  own  vocabularies.  Mr.  Meredith's  interests 
and  methods  may  be  thus  briefly  indicated,  but  the 
spirit  of  his  work,  the  leaven  that  leavens  it,  resides 
in  his  apprehension  of  life  as  a  tragi-comedy,  as  a 
subject  for  '  thoughtful  laughter."  ]Mr.  Meredith 
— a7rovho'ye\oLO<^ — conceives  that  there  exists  no 
need  to  distort  or  dislocate  human  life,  to  view  it 

127 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

in  concave  or  convex  mirrors,  in  order  to  present 
a  picture  which  will  afford  a  smile  to  the  wise 
student  of  the  spectacle.  '  The  Comic  Spirit,  which 
is  the  perceptive,  is  the  governing  spirit,  awaken- 
ing and  giving  aim  to  the  powers  of  laughter.' 
Mr.  Meredith  is  the  willing  servitor  of  the  Comic 
Muse. 

'  Thine  is  the  service^  thine  the  sport 
This  shifty  heart  of  ours  to  hunt 
Across  its  webs  and  round  the  many  a  ring 
Where  fox  it  is,  or  snake,  or  mingled  seeds 
Occasion  heats  to  shape,  or  the  poor  smoke 
Struck  from  a  puff-ball,  or  the  troughster's  grunt, ' 

But   the    Comic    Muse    knows    her   limitations. 

There  are   sights    at   which    she   does  not  laugh  ; 

and  in  the  presence  of  Sincerity  she  spreads  her 

wings.     You  may  even  love  and  not  call  a  smile 

to  her  features.     '  If  she  watches  over  sentimen- 

talism  with    a   birch-rod,   she    is   not    opposed   to 

romance.     You  may  love,  and  warmly  too,  as  long 

as  you  are  honest.     Do  not  offend  reason.'     There 

are  causes,  Mr.  Meredith  will  tell  us,  for  tears  as 

well  as  laughter. 

'  For  this  the  Comic  Muse  extracts  of  creatures 
Appealing  to  the  fount  of  tears  ;  that  they 
Strive  never  to  outleap  our  human  features 
And  do  right  reason's  ordinance  obey. 
In  peril  of  the  hum  to  laughter  nighest. 
But  prove  they  under  stress  of  action's  fire 
Nobleness,  to  that  test  of  Reason  highest 
She  bows  ;  she  waves  them  for  tlie  loftier  lyre.' 

128 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

In  the  main,  however,  Mr.  Meredith  finds  that 
there  is  more  of  comedy  than  tragedy  in  the  world, 
or  he  has  found  in  himself  a  riper  faculty  for  its 
representation.  The  tragedy  that  follows  hard 
upon  the  heels  of  comedy  in  human  life  he  does 
not  exclude  as  a  subject  for  his  art;  but  he  usually 
declines  to  dwell  upon  it,  to  bring  it  into  the  fore- 
ground of  his  representation.  Comedy  occupies 
the  foreground  in  Mr.  Meredith's  drama  of  life. 
And  of  the  supreme  tragedy  of  love  deflowered  he 
would  have  us  believe  that  Shakespeare  himself, 
master  of  human  nature,  had  no  knowledge. 

^  Thence  came  the  honeyed  corner  at  his  lips, 
The  conquering  smile  wherein  his  spirit  sails 
Calm  as  the  God  who  the  white  sea  wave  whips. 
Yet  full  of  speech  and  intershifting-  tales. 
Close  mirrors  of  us  ;  thence  had  he  the  laugh 
We  feel  is  thine  ;  broad  as  ten  thousand  beeves 
At  pasture  ! ' 

In  Mr.  Meredith's  drama  of  life  comedy  occupies 
the  foreground  ;  yet,  when  the  issues  are  the  issues 
of  tragedy,  it  cannot  be  said  that  his  power  is  less 
apparent.  The  tragic  argument  is  not  too  high  for 
him  ;  but  he  is  at  all  times  a  stranwr  to  that  vulo-ar 
insistence  upon  grief,  that  call  to  tears,  that  pro- 
tracted demand  for  pity  which  so  often  masquerades 
as  tragedy  or  as  pathos. 

'  Concerning  pathos/  as  he  tells  us  in  the  opening 
I  129 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

chapter  of  The  Egoist, '  no  ship  can  now  set  sail  without 
pathos ;  and  we  are  not  totally  deficient  of  pathos. 
The  Egoist  surely  inspires  pity.  He  who  would 
desire  to  clothe  himself  at  everybody's  expense,  and 
is  of  that  desire  condemned  to  strip  himself  stark 
naked,  he,  if  pathos  ever  had  a  form,  might  be  taken 
for  the  actual  person.  Only  he  is  not  allowed  to  rush 
at  you,  roll  you  over,  and  squeeze  your  body  for  the 
briny  drops.     There  is  the  innovation.' 

But  this  innovation  of  Mr.  Meredith's,  this  reluct- 
ance to  force  tears  from  us,  to  compel  us  to  a  luxury 
of  grief,  is  construed  by  some  so  as  to  yield  a  theory 
akin  to  the  feminine  theory  in  respect  of  Thackeray 
— that  he,  too,  is  a  cynic,  or  if  not  a  cynic,  at  least 
deficient  in  heart.  It  is  a  theory  to  be  summarily 
dismissed.  We  have  no  fear  in  the  company  of 
those  who  speak  freely  of  their  grief,  in  the  com- 
pany of  those  whose  recital  is  accompanied  by 
tears.  In  such  company  we  can  remain  masters 
of  our  own  emotions.  But  there  are  others  who 
feel  widely  and  deeply,  and  through  excess  or 
intensity  of  emotion  do  not  trust  themselves  to 
speak,  or,  when  they  speak,  preserve  a  calm  or 
even  a  cheerful  countenance;  this  is  dangerous 
company  for  those  whose  emotions  are  'tickle  o' 
the  sere.'  Composed  features  furnish  but  a  shallow 
argument  that  the  heart  does  not  bleed.  And 
indeed  not  one  of  the  popular  titles  will  fit  Mr. 
Meredith,   not   cynic,   nor   pessimist,   nor   sceptic. 

130 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

The  popular  ethical  codes,  too,  will  not  serve ;  he  is 
not  to  be  parcelled  out  by  the  Liliputian  measur- 
ing-tapes. Not  realist  nor  idealist,  but  both;  a 
writer  who  appeals  in  his  own  fine  phrase  to  '  the 
conscience  residing  in  thoughtfulness,'  who  is  on 
the  side  of  unwearying,  inextinguishable  effort, 
whose  ethics  are  the  simple  ethics  of  a  faith  in  all 
heroic  enterprises. 

Mr.  Meredith"  entered  the  field  of  authorship 
between  the  publication  of  Pendennis  and  that  of 
Heiiry  Esmond,  in  1851,  the  year  after  the  publi- 
cation of  In  Memoriam,  and  entered  it,  not  as  a 
novelist,  but  as  a  poet.  It  was  not  until  five  years 
later  that  he  made  his  first  appearance  as  a  prose 
writer,  in  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,  a  fantasy  less 
likely  to  attract  than  to  bewilder  even  a  conciliatory 
public.  No  reader  of  Mr.  Meredith's  early  verses, 
however  gifted  with  critical  second-sight,  could  have 
foreseen  the  author  of  The  Egoist,  or  Diana  of 
the  Crossways,  either  in  the  strong  or  in  the  weak 
poems  contained  in  that  first  volume. 

^  Summer  glows  warm  on  the  meadows  ;  then  come  let  us 

roam  thro'  them  gaily. 
Heedless  of  heat  and  the  hot-kissing  sun,  and  the  fear  of 

dark  freckles,   .  .  . 
Come,  and  like  bees  we  will  gather  the  rich  golden  honey 

of  noontide  ; 
Deep  in  the  sweet  summer  meadows,  bordered  by  hillside 

and  river 

131 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Lined  with  long  trenches  half-hidden^  where  sweetest  the 

smell  of  white  meadoM^sweet 
Blissfully  hovers — O  sweetest  !  but  pluck  it  not !  even  in 

the  tenderest 
Grasp  it  will  lose  breath  and  wither ;  like  many  not  made 

for  a  posy.' 

There  is  not  much  indication  here  of  the  later 
and  more  characteristic  manner.  This  was  written 
in  the  years  before  Mr.  Meredith  had  taught  him- 
self to  write  love-speeches  like  this  : — 

'  So  in  love  with  you  that  on  my  soul  your  happiness 
was  my  marrow — whatever  you  wished  ;  anything  you 
chose.  It's  reckoned  a  fool's  part.  No_,  it's  love ;  the 
love  of  a  woman — the  one  woman  !  I  was  like  the 
hand  of  a  clock  to  the  springs.  I  taught  this  old 
watch-dog  of  a  heart  to  keep  guards  and  bury  the  bones 
you  tossed  him.' 

Or  to  inform  his  readers  of  a  simple  fact  in  this 
fashion : — 

'  Algernon  waited  dinnerless  until  the  healthy-going 
minutes  distended  and  swelled  monstrous  and  horrible 
as  viper-bitten  bodies^  and  the  venerable  Signior  Time 
became  of  unhealthy  hue.' 

Or  to  set  them  problems  like  this  : — 

'  The  talk  fell  upon  our  being  creatures  of  habit. 
She  said,  "  It  is  there  that  we  see  ourselves  crutched 
between  love  grown  old  and  indifference  ageing  to 
love."  ' 

Yet,  like  that  of  all  great  writers,  Mr.  Meredith's 

132 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

style  has  charm,  a  something  analogous  to  the 
expression  which  accompanies  the  words  of  the 
speaker,  and  lends  to  them  the  interest  of  his 
personality.  i\Ir.  Meredith's  style  has  charm,  but 
an  occasional,  a  fitful  charm.  We  do  not  contend 
that  there  is  a  hidden  grace  in  such  phrases  as  '  her 
meditations  tottered  in  dots,"*  'swings  suspended  on 
a  scarce  credible  guess,"*  '  infrigidated  a  congenial 
atmosphere  by  an  overflow  of  exclamatory  wonder- 
ment,'' '  women  whose  bosoms  can  be  tombs,"*  or 
'  Her  head  performed  the  negative,"'  or  '  resumed  its 
brushing  negative,"*  or  in  any  of  the  phrases  usually 
quoted  in  derision  of  Mr.  Meredith's  style.  For  a 
deliberate  artist  he  can  be  terribly  uncouth,  but 
though  eccentricities  may  mar  a  character,  though 
they  may  mar  a  style,  they  are  not  necessarily 
inconsistent  with  charm.  Mr.  Meredith  plays  the 
coquette  with  his  readers,  and  estranges  them,  that 
he  may  display  his  power  of  reducing  them  once 
again  to  subjection.  In  Shagpat^  for  example, 
though  he  bewilders  he  fascinates,  and  Shagpat  is 
one  of  his  most  typical  works.  Here  is  a  fairy  tale, 
the  only  fairy  tale,  we  have  been  assured  by  one  of 
their  best  students,  which,  produced  in  an  age  of 
culture,  fully  conforms  to  the  folk-tale  convention. 
How  characteristic  of  its  author  to  set  himself  so 
herculean  a  task,  to  court  a  failure  and  to  achieve 
a  triumph.     Much  of  the  charm  of  Mr.  Meredith's 

JO 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

style   consists   in    this,   that    it    is    suffused   with 
poetry.       He   began    as   poet,  and  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult, more  especially  perhaps  in  his  transcripts  of 
Nature,  to  discover  the  poet  behind  the  novelist. 
Passage  after  passage  will  recur  to  his  readers  in 
which  he  has  rendered  with  a  poet's  fidelity,  with  a 
poet's  felicity,  the  more  elusive  aspects  of  a  scene, 
its  air  and  sky.    No  poet  has  with  more  penetrating 
insight  realised  the  unity,  the  larger  harmony,  which 
without  moral  or  spiritual    loss    includes   man    in 
Nature.    The  atmosphere  of  Nature's  varying  moods, 
and  their  magnetic  influences  upon  the  soul,  these, 
the  proofs  of  that  harmony,  he  has  set  himself  to 
delineate  in  his  verse.     The  subtle  effluences  of  a 
morn  of  May,  the  autumnal  chill  of  November  that 
damps  to  the  bone,  the  virago  morn  on  which  the 
wind  has  teeth  and  claws,  all  these  he  is  glad  to 
have   known,   they  belong  to  the  great    order    of 
things.     And  because  he  is   a  poet  Mr.  Meredith 
is  the  closest  observer  of  Nature  among   all  our 
novelists,  the  closest  observer  and  the  most  minute 
painter  among  them. 

'  February  blew  south-west  for  the  pairing  of  the 
birds.  A  broad  warm  wind  rolled  clouds  of  every 
ambiguity  of  form  in  magnitude  over  peeping  azure, 
or  skimming  upon  lakes  of  blue  and  lightest  green,  or 
piling  the  amphitheatre  for  majestic  sunset.' 

'  Rain  was  universal ;  a  thick  robe  of  it  swept  from 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

hill  to  hill;  thunder  rumbled  remote, and  between  the 
ruffled  roars,  the  downpour  pressed  on  the  land,  with  a 
great  noise  of  eager  gobbling.' 

'  South-western  rain-clouds  are  never  long  sullen  .  .  . 
they  rise  and  take  veiled  features  in  long  climbing 
watery  lines  ;  at  any  moment  they  may  break  the  veil 
and  show  soft  upper  cloud,  show  sun  on  it,  show  sky, 
green  near  the  verge  they  spring  from,  of  the  green 
of  grass  in  early  dew.' 

But  if  Mr.  Meredith's  transcripts  of  Nature  be- 
long to  poetry,  there  are  passages  in  his  description 
of  women  that  belong  to  it  no  less.  His  admirers 
are  indeed  always  willing  to  stake  his  reputation 
upon  the  boyishness  of  his  boys,  and  the  woman- 
hood of  his  women.  And  they  are  not  wrong.  The 
author  of  Richard  Feverel  and  Harry  Richmond 
is  without  doubt  a  supreme  delineator  of  boyhood  ; 
he  has  probed  it  to  the  centre.  And  despite  the 
reservations  it  is  necessary  to  make  in  respect  of 
Mr.  Meredith  as  a  literary  artist,  one  must  register 
a  conviction  that  in  his  portraiture  of  women  he  is 
without  a  rival  among  English  novelists.  The 
reference  to  Shakespeare  made  in  this  connec- 
tion by  Mr.  Meredith's  admirers  is  a  trite  one,  but 
it  is  not  unwarrantable.  When  one  thinks  of 
Shakespeare's  women,  and  the  wonderful  procession 
begins  to  pass  before  the  eye  of  the  mind,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  anything  at  all  comparable  will 
ever  be   seen  again.      And  indeed  nothing  at  all 

135 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

comparable  ever  will  be  seen  again.  Yet  if  one 
thinks  of  some  of  them  singly  :  of  Juliet,  who 
could  '  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright ' ;  of 
Constance,  who  '  will  instruct  her  sorrows  to  be 
proud  "* ;  of  Portia,  '  the  true  and  honourable  wife '' 
of  Brutus ;  of  Rosalind  the  forest-maid,  who  plays 
the  forester  with  such  consummate  delicacy  and 
grace ;  of  Perdita  the  country  child,  as  fresh  and 
beautiful  as  her  own  flowers  drenched  in  the  bright 
dews  of  heaven  ;  of  Viola  the  silent,  of  Olivia  the 
stately,  of  Cleopatra,  who  could  '  make  death  proud 
to  take  her' — if  we  call  up  to  memory  some  of  these 
marvellous  portraits  by  Shakespeare,  though  the 
possibility  of  any  general  comparison  dies  away 
with  the  mere  mental  enumeration,  it  may  yet 
perhaps  justly  be  said,  that  among  Mr.  Meredith's 
portraits  there  are  some  which  the  fierce  light  of 
the  comparison  cannot  injure,  there  are  some  ima- 
gined and  presented  so  similarly  that  we  are  even 
forced  to  make  it.  Letitia  Dale,  '  with  the  romantic 
tale  upon  her  eyelashes ' ;  Clara  Middleton,  '  the 
dainty  rogue  in  porcelain,'  'who  gives  one  an  idea  of 
the  mountain  echo ' ;  Diana,  all  air  and  fire,  worthy 
the  name  of  the  quivered  goddess ;  Renee  with  her 
southern  blood  and  wilful  graces ;  Emilia,  the 
simple  girl  and  passionate  patriot ;  Lucy,  a  fairy 
princess,  a  magic  enchantment  to  the  eyes  of  the 
new  Ferdinand  ;  the  soft-eyed  star  of  love,  Ottilia, 

136 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

noble  in  heart  and  name  ; — to  deny  that  these  are 
near  of  kin  to  the  women  of  Shakespeare  is  indeed 
possible,  but  Justice  and  the  Graces  forbid  it. 

We  have  said  that  the  poet  in  Mr.  Meredith  is 
displayed  in  his  transcripts  from  Nature  and  in 
his  descriptions  of  women  no  less.  Perhaps  in  that 
love  idyll,  the  chapter  in  Richard  Feverel  entitled 
'A  Diversion,  played  on  a  Penny  Whistle,"  the 
best  that  prose  can  do  to  blend  in  one  unforget- 
table strain  the  full  enchantment  of  summer  and 
the  golden  joys  of  young  hearts  that  love  has 
been  done.  Perhaps  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
elsewhere  the  like  sympathetic  intensity  of  descrip- 
tion, so  marvellous  a  power  of  realising  with  so 
marvellous  a  power  of  rendering  into  words  in 
their  prose  order  the  mingled  flame  and  mystery 
and  ecstasy  that  surround  as  with  a  shimmering 
magic  haze  the  early  hours  of  a  great  passion. 
Here  is  a  fragment  from  one  of  his  chapters  in 
Richard  Feverel^  which  are  unsurpassed  and  unsur- 
passable : — 

'  And  so  it  was  with  the  damsel  that  knelt  there. 
The  little  skylark  went  up  above  her,  all  song,  to  the 
smooth  southern  cloud  lying  along  the  blue ;  from  a 
dewy  copse  standing  dark  over  her  nodding  hat  the 
blackbird  fluted,  calhng  to  her  -with  thrice  mellow 
note ;  the  kingfisher  flashed  emerald  out  of  green 
osiers ;  a  bow-winged  heron  travelled  aloft^  seeking 
solitude;    a   boat   slipped    towards  her   containing  a 

137 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

dreamy  youth  ;  and  still  she  plucked  the  fruit,  and 
ate,  and  mused,  as  if  no  fairy  prince  were  invading 
her  territories,  and  as  if  she  wished  not  for  one  or 
knew  not  her  wishes.  Surrounded  by  the  green 
shaven  meadows,  the  pastoral  summer  buzz,  the  weir- 
fall's  thundering  white,  amid  the  breath  and  beauty 
of  wild-flowers,  she  was  a  bit  of  lovely  human  life 
in  a  fair  setting — a  terrible  attraction.  The  Magnetic 
Youth  leaned  round  to  note  his  proximity  to  the  weir 
piles,  and  beheld  the  sweet  vision.  Stiller  and  stiller 
grew  Nature  as  at  the  meeting  of  two  electric  clouds.' 

There  is  little  need  to  go  further  for  proof  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  right  to  rank  with  the  greater 
novelists  of  the  century  in  point  of  literary  or 
dramatic  skill ;  here  at  least  he  is  the  equal  of 
most  men,  but  as  a  student  of  human  nature  he 
is  the  master  of  most.  The  absence  of  sentiment- 
ality, the  absence  of  mawkish n ess,  from  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's descriptions  of  the  relations  of  men  and 
women,  his  quiet  adherence  to  the  facts,  is  not  one 
of  the  least  attractions  of  his  books.  Mr.  Meredith 
is  never  more  secure  in  his  grasp  of  reality  than 
when  on  difficult  or  dangerous  ground.  The  ques- 
tion of  the  sex-relation  is  indeed  what  he  would 
himself  call  a  crucible  question — he  speaks  some- 
where of  a  '  crucible  woman,'  a  woman  in  whose 
presence  one  is  quickly  resolved  into  one's  com- 
ponent parts.  In  dealing  with  the  sex-relation  so 
many  of  our  novelists,  otherwise  undetected,  have 

13S 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

betrayed  the  unhealthy  mind.  It  is  the  rock  upon 
which  so  many  have  split,  and  not  a  few  while 
flying  white-cross  colours  of  a  lofty  creed.  Of  one 
of  his  own  women  he  says  : — 

^  She  gave  him  [her  lover]  comprehension  of  the 
meaning  of  love — a  word  in  many  mouths  not  often 
explained.  With  her,  wound  in  his  idea  of  her^  he 
perceived  it  to  signify  a  new  start  in  our  existence,  a 
finer  shoot  of  the  tree  stoutly  planted  in  good  gross 
earth,  the  senses  running  their  live  sap,  and  the  minds 
companioned  and  the  spirits  made  one  by  the  whole- 
natured  conjunction.' 

It  would  be  difficult  to  better  such  a  description. 
Of  another  he  says  with  admirable  frankness  :  '  She 
was  not  pure  of  nature ;  it  may  be  that  we  breed 
saintly  souls  which  are ;  she  was  pure  of  will ;  fire 
rather  than  ice.'  It  ought  to  be  observed  that  ^Ir. 
Meredith's  heroines  belong  almost  without  excep- 
tion to  the  class  which  finds  in  the  conditions  of 
modern  life  something  from  which  they  would 
escape,  something  that  under  all  their  gracious 
acceptance  of  things  as  they  are  they  endure  with 
difficulty.  By  certain  subtle  signs  they  per- 
ceive that  they  are  still  under  the  physical  yoke. 
Though  born  within  the  cage  they  have  hints  of 
freedom — strange,  half- understood  longings  for 
emancipation,  and  the  gilt  upon  the  bars  does  not 
deceive  them. 

139 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

'  Men  may  have  doubled  Seraglio  point ;  they  have 
not  yet  rounded  Cape  Turk.' 

^  Women  are  in  the  position  of  inferiors.  They  are 
hardly  out  of  the  nursery  when  a  lasso  is  round  their 
necks  ;  and  if  they  have  beauty,  no  wonder  they  turn 
it  to  a  weapon  and  make  as  many  captives  as  they 
can.' 

According  to  Mr.  Meredith  women  are  still 
creatures  of  the  chase,  preyed  upon  by  primitive 
man.  And  for  those  who  do  not  feel  or  who 
positively  extract  a  pleasure  from  their  subjection, 
as  for  those  who  are  unconscious  that  they  are  in 
captivity,  Mr.  Meredith  exhibits  a  frank  contempt. 
'  The  humbly-knitting  housewife,  unquestionably 
worshipful  of  her  lord,'  the  virginal  ninny,  she  who 
has  '  worn  a  mask  of  ignorance  to  be  named  inno- 
cent,' she  who  is  '^etpoijOij^;,  or  in  the  language  of 
men  is  '  essentially  feminine,'  of  these  types  he  is 
not  enamoured,  hardly  even  interested  in  them, 
and  of  these  he  draws  but  few  portraits.  They 
have  indeed  had  their  day,  these  heroines  of  twenty 
thousand  fictions  ;  they  have  been  beloved  of  many 
novelists,  and  by  not  a  few,  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged, among  those  of  even  the  greatest  name. 
But  they  lack  Mr.  Meredith's  praise.  To  those 
women  he  turns  '  who  have  shame  of  their  sex, 
who  realise  that  they  cannot  take  a  step  without 
becoming  bond-women,'  to  those  whose  wings  beat 

140 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

against  the  bars  of  their  prison-house,  '  who  muse 
on  actual  life  and  fatigue  with  the  exercise  of 
their  brains  and  traffic  in  ideas;  to  these  'prin- 
cesses of  their  kind  and  time,  albeit  foreign  ones 
and  speaking  a  language  distinct  from  the  mer- 
cantile,' to  these  women  Mr.  ]\Ieredith  turns  for 
his  heroines.  The  majority  of  them  are  either 
actually  insubordinate  or  chafing.  They  are  splen- 
did wild  creatures:  not  tamed,  even  untamable, 
and  for  this  very  reason  dear  to  him  ;  the  true 
type  of  womanhood,  spiritually  free,  and  bidding 
defiance  to  the  mere  primitive  hunter  from  the 
inaccessible  resorts  of  their  own  natures. 

As    he    has   broken   through    the    conventional 
treatment    of    sex    problems,    so    he    has    broken 
throuo-h    the   traditional,   the  conventional   treat- 
ment of  women  as  exhibited  in  fictional  art.     Of 
sentimentalism  he  is  the  unceasing  enemy.      Mr. 
Meredith's  heroines  are  women  who  would  escape 
the  feminine  in  themselves  in  order  to  assimilate 
something    of  masculine    strength,  who  would  be 
admitted  within  the  pale  of  reasonable  beings,  and 
not  left  in  the  outer  world  of  sentimentalities  and 
gossip.       And    had    Mr.    Meredith    accomplished 
nothing  save  the  delineation   of  so  noble  and  so 
new  a  type  of  heroine,  had  he  accomplished  nothing 
save  to  press  home  upon  us  the  conviction  that 
to  the  finer,  the  more  spiritual,  elements  in  woman- 

141 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

hood  we  had  hitherto  done  scant  justice,  that  its 
beauty  and  its  charm  were  resident  in  qualities 
other  than  those  conventionally  ascribed  to  it,  his 
work  would  not  be  unfruitful.  Mr.  Meredith's 
success  in  penetrating  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
feminine  character,  the  depth  and  subtlety  of  his 
analysis,  the  variety  of  the  types  he  has  presented 
— this  is  one  of  the  pillars  upon  which  his  reputa- 
tion rests. 

Indisputably,  I  believe  the  perfection  of  these 
portraits  of  women  consists  in  the  art  which  the 
author  shares  with  all  the  great  writers  who  have 
excelled  in  the  portraiture  of  women,  the  art  with 
which  he  contrives,  despite  his  searching  analysis, 
to  leave  something  untold,  something  of  mystery  in 
the  character  of  every  woman  he  has  drawn.  Mr. 
Meredith's  instinct  often  fails  him ;  it  has  never 
failed  him  here.  He  has  recognised  that  however 
boldly  the  artist  may  delineate  the  character  of  a 
man,  however  completely  render  him,  it  is  not 
possible  to  give  the  same  finishing  touches,  the 
same  air  of  finality  to  the  character  of  a  woman. 
Something  that  eludes  analysis,  something  that 
declines  to  be  rendered,  remains,  and  to  convey  this 
impression  is  essential  to  avoid  a  mechanical  result, 
a  mere  photograph.  But  Mr.  Meredith,  whatever 
his  failings  as  an  artist,  is  no  mere  photographer, 
and  I,  at  least,  am  satisfied  that  his  gallery  of  life- 

142 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

like  women  is  unmatched  in  any  other  English 
prose  writer.  Not  only  is  he  a  master  of  the 
secrets  of  the  female  heart ;  no  other  novelist  has 
such  an  eye  for  the  graces  of  her  person.  Take 
this  of  Renee  in  Beauchamps  Career,  Renee, 

'  a  brunette  of  the  fine  lineaments  of  the  good  blood  of 
France.  .  .  .  She  chattered  snatches  of  Venetian  caught 
from  the  gondoliers,  she  was  like  a  delicate  cup  of 
crystal  brimming  with  the  beauty  of  the  place,  and 
making  one  drink  in  all  his  impressions  through  her. 
Her  features  had  the  soft  irregularities  which  ran  to 
rarities  of  beauty,  as  the  ripple  rocks  the  light ;  mouth, 
eyes,  brows,  nostrils,  and  bloomy  cheeks  played  into 
one  another  liquidly  ;  thought  flew,  tongue  followed, 
and  the  flash  of  meaning  quivered  over  them  like 
night-lightning.' 

Or  take  this  of  Clara  Middleton  : — 

'  really  insufferably  fair,  ...  a  sight  to  set  the  w^oodland 
dancing.  .  .  .  She  wore  a  dress  cunning  to  embrace  the 
shape  and  flutter  loose  about  it,  in  the  spirit  of  a 
Summer  s  day.  Calypso-clad,  Dr.  Middleton  would 
have  called  her.  See  the  silver  birch  in  the  breeze  : 
here  it  swells,  there  it  scatters,  and  it  is  puffed  to  a 
round  and  it  streams  like  a  pennon,  and  now  gives  the 
glimpse  and  shine  of  the  white  stem's  line  within, 
now  hurries  over  it,  denying  that  it  was  visible,  with  a 
chatter  along  the  sweeping  folds,  while  still  the  white 
peeps  through.  She  had  the  wonderful  art  of  dress- 
ing to  suit  the  season  and  the  sky.  To-day  the  art 
was  ravishingly  companionable  with  her  sweet-lighted 

143 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

face  :  too  sweet,  too  vividly-meaningful  for  pretty,  if 
not  of  the  strict  severity  for  beautiful.  Millinery 
would  tell  us  that  she  wore  a  fichu  of  thin  white 
muslin  crossed  in  front  on  a  dress  of  the  same  light 
stuff,  trimmed  with  deep  rose.  She  carried  a  grey 
silk  parasol,  traced  at  the  borders  with  green  creepers, 
and  across  the  arm  devoted  to  Crossjay,  a  length 
of  trailing  ivy,  and  in  that  hand  a  bunch  of  the 
first  long  grasses.  These  hues  of  red  rose  and  green 
and  pale  green,  ruffled  and  pouted  in  the  billowy 
white  of  the  dress  ballooning  and  valleying  softly,  like 
a  yacht  before  the  sail  bends  low ;  but  she  walked  not 
like  one  blown  against ;  resembling  rather  the  day  of 
the  South-west  driving  the  clouds,  gallantly  firm  in 
commotion;  interfusing  colour  and  varying  in  her 
features  from  laugh  to  smile  and  look  of  settled 
pleasure,  like  the  heavens  above  the  breeze.' 

What  a  picture  for  blended  colour  and  move- 
ment !  When  one  reads  a  passage  like  this,  a 
picture  from  Mr.  Meredith  at  his  best,  or  when  one 
comes  upon  a  triumphant  phrase  like  that  descrip- 
tive of  Vernon  Whitford— '  Phoebus  Apollo  turned 
fasting  friar,'  one  cannot  but  acknowledge  him,  to 
borrow  his  own  phrase  of  Alvan,  as  '  a  figure  of  easy 
and  superb  predominance'  among  contemporary 
novelists.  Yet  when  victory  is  within  his  grasp  he 
misses  it,  for  Mr.  Meredith,  though  a  great,  is  not 
a  sure  artist,  comparable  with  Wordsworth  in  the 
sphere  of  poetry,  capable  of  achieving  great  effects, 
but    apparently    unable   to    distinguish    the   great 

144 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

effects  and  the  writing  which  achieves  no  effect  at 
all,  or  even  a  disagreeable  one.  The  absence  of  the 
critical  faculty,  the  blindness  when  one's  own  work 
is  in  question,  though  a  serious  defect  in  a  poet 
is  immeasurably  more  serious  in  a  prose  writer. 
Wordsworth  was  subject  to  '  strange  hallucinations 
of  the  ear,'  he  frequently  produced  prose,  and 
betrayed  no  consciousness  that  it  was  not  high 
poetry.  Hence  it  comes  that  with  Wordsworth  the 
part  is  greater  than  the  whole.  But  that  part  is 
easily  separable  from  the  whole ;  a  broad  line  may 
be  drawn  dividing  the  work  of  great  and  enduring 
value  from  the  work  of  no  value  at  all.  Nor  does 
the  uninspired  verse  seriously  interfere  with  our 
enjoyment  of  the  inspired.  But  with  a  prose 
writer  we  are  in  no  such  happy  case.  Certainly 
with  a  prose  writer  like  Mr.  Meredith  we  are  in 
very  evil  case  indeed.  We  may  easily  separate  the 
poet's  wheat  from  the  chaff,  but  no  such  separation 
can  be  made  with  the  novelist.  He  is  even  less 
amenable  than  the  historian  to  any  principles  of 
selection.  He  must  be  accepted  or  rejected  as  a 
whole,  and  can  make  no  bid  for  popular  favour  in 
a  volume  of  elegant  extracts.  Here  are  a  number 
of  bulky  volumes  within  whose  covers  a  full  and 
systematised  philosophy  might  easily  find  a  home, 
within  whose  covers,  indeed,  a  view  of  human 
life  so  clear,  so  sane,  so  complete  as  rightly  to  be 

K  145 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

named    philosophical   is   actually   set   forth ;    but 
if  the   view  be  clear  and  sane  and  complete,  the 
exposition  of  the  view  is  tortuous,  beset  with  inco- 
herencies  and  choked  with  perversities  of  diction. 
'Inordinate   unvaried    length,    sheer    longinquity, 
staggers  the  head,  ages  the  very  heart  of  us  at  a 
view.'       To    make   one's    way  to    Mr.    Meredith's 
elevated  tableland  of  thought  one  must  be  a  moun- 
taineer, to  whom  neither  col  nor  arete  present  any 
difficulties.     There  is  no  means  of  getting   there 
save    by    toiling    up    the    lower    snow-slopes,    and 
cutting  a  path  with  the  ice-axe  for  the  remainder 
of  the  journey.     It  might  almost  be  said  of  some  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  novels  that  they  were  not  designed 
by   their  author  to    be  read  any    more    than  the 
Himalayas  were  designed  by  Nature  to  be  climbed. 
Doubtless  many  of  the  eccentricities  of  his  style  are 
incidental  to  his  genius  and  temperament,  but  we 
are  convinced  that  its  worst  faults  are  faults  which 
its  possessor  has  acquired,  not  succeeded  to  as  part 
of  his  original  mental  equipment. 

Mr.  Meredith,  then,  has  taught  himself  to  write 
the  style  that  is  characteristic  of  him,  and  he  has 
done  so  in  order  to  avoid  '  the  malady  of  sameness, 
our  modern  malady,'  as  he  calls  it.  On  every  page 
of  his  writing  appears  his  horror  of  the  common- 
place. Language  worn  dull  by  use,  phrases  that 
have   lost   their  edge,  collocations   of  words  with 

146 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

which  the  ear  is  familiar,  these  he  will  have  none  of. 
There  is  no  one  who  will  not  sympathise  with  an 
author    acutely    sensitive  to  the   value    of   words, 
acutely  sensitive  to  the  diminution  of  their  power  or 
picturesqueness  in  certain   combinations.     But  we 
are  too  willing  to  accept  piquancy  or  novelty  as  dis- 
tinction in  style,  just  as  we  are  often  too  willing 
to  accept   eccentricity  as  genius.     And  not  infre- 
quently Mr.  Meredith,  in  his  determination  to  be 
anything  rather  than  commonplace  in  diction,  has 
succeeded  only  too  well  by  becoming  unintelligible 
or  aggressively  obscure.     'He   succeeds,'  says  Mr. 
Barrie  somewhere  of  his  phrases,  '  he   succeeds,  I 
believe,  as  often  as  he  fails.'      There  is  an  heroic 
rino-  in  this  darins;  '  I  believe.'   Grant  the  contention, 
and  we  are  merely  reiterating  that  he  is  not  a  sure 
artist.  Mr.  Meredith,  as  is  often  remarked,  is  too  con- 
sistently clever,  and  mere  cleverness  palls.     A  writer, 
to  deserve  the  epithet  great,  should  be  master  of  a 
various  power,  a  various  charm  ;  he  should  subdue 
us  by  sympathy,  by  enthusiasm,  by  wit,  by  reason, 
by  an  appeal  to  the  heart  as  well  as  by  an  appeal 
to  the  head  ;  Mr.  Meredith  hammers  too  exclusively 
at  our  intelligence.       '  The  creative  power  and  the 
intellectual  energy,'  says  Coleridge  of  Shakespeare, 
'  wrestle  as  in  a  war  embrace.'     Something  of  the 
same  kind  is  true  of  Mr.  Meredith,  but  his  intel- 
lectual power  generally  obtains  the  mastery.      And 

147 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

it  is  here  that  his  admirers  who  desire  to  preserve 
their   allegiance    to   the    traditions    of    classic   art 
become   his    critics.       His    first    conceptions,    his 
initial  designs,  are  projected  on  a  superb  scale,  his 
instinct   probes  to  the    centre.      Then   comes    the 
hour  of  elaboration,  of  patient  and  gradual  pro- 
gression ;   and   the    temptation    to    make    dashing 
excursions,    forays    of    intellectual    brilliance,  into 
adjoining  country  proves  too  much  for  him.      The 
plan  of  the  attack  is  that  of  a  heaven-born  com- 
mander, but  the  management  of  the  campaign  is 
slow  and  desultory.      In   a  word,   Mr.   Meredith's 
judgment   is    not  equal   to  his   genius.       What  a 
spendthrift  he  is  of  his    intellectual   wealth,   how 
wantonly  he  sows  with  the  whole  sack,  his  readers  do 
not  need  to  be  informed.     We  are  indeed  willing  to 
acknowledge  that  there  is  a  princeliness,  something 
of  the  intellectual  potentate,  about  this  splendid 
diffusion   of  treasure,  this   unlimited  largess  from 
inexhaustible  mines  of  mind.      There  is  no  need  for 
Mr.  Meredith  to  hoard  his  thoughts,  or  to  tender 
each  for  acceptance  with  impressive  accompanying 
ceremonies,  to  offer  his  jewels  only  when   cut  and 
polished    and    set    in  a   frame    of    precious    metal 
choicely  wrought  as  a  foil.      Are  such  methods  only 
appropriate  in  the  case  of  scanty  possessions  ?     Here 
you  may  choose  and  bear  away  what  you  will  from 
these  indistinguished  heaps  where  the  commonest 

148 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

pebbles  are  strewn  side  by  side  with  gems  worthy 
the  lapidary's  art. 

Yet  since  it  is  not  j\Ir.  Meredith's  intellectual 
wealth  but  the  perfection  of  his  art  that  is  in 
question,  there  is  no  other  verdict  possible  than 
that  already  given — his  judgment  is  not  equal  to 
his  genius.  How  vastly  would  readers  profit  had 
the  entire  garden  been  weeded  even  as  Richard 
Feverel  has  been  weeded.  In  the  second  edition  of 
that  book  whole  paragraphs,  even  chapters  of  irre- 
levancy disappeared,  and  in  the  edition  now  offered 
to  the  public  further  excisions,  including  the  chapter 
entitled  '  A  Shadowy  View  of  Ccelebs  Pater  going 
about  with  a  Glass  Slipper,'  have  been  made.  It  is 
a  hopeful  sign.  The  surplusage  in  this  final  edition 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  works  is  not  indeed  wholly 
removed  ;  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things  wholly 
removable.  Much  of  it  is  so  imbedded  in  the  fabric 
itself  that  to  remove  it  would  be  to  dislocate  and 
loosen  the  entire  framework.  Apart,  too,  from  the 
mere  surplusage,  removable  or  irremovable,  there 
are  the  extravagances  of  diction  which  disfigure  so 
many  even  of  the  finest  passages.  In  his  determina- 
tion to  avoid  the  insipidity  of  the  commonplace, 
Mr.  Meredith  was  driven  into  permitting  himself  a 
freedom  of  speech  which  deserted  elegance  to  ally 
itself  with  licence,  and  failed  to  justify  the  union 
in  the  only  way  in  which  the  union  can  be  justified, 

149 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

by  success.  Great  writers  commonly  attain  their 
eifects  with  apparent  ease ;  to  suggest  strain  argues 
littleness.  Yet  of  all  English  writers  of  rank  there 
is  perhaps  not  one  who  seems  to  write  with  more 
continued  effort,  as  of  a  gymnast  performing  feats 
whose  only  interest  lies  in  their  difficulty,  feats 
which  we  would  willingly  believe  not  merely  difficult, 
but  impossible.  In  the  efforts,  belated  efforts  one 
must  call  them,  to  prune  away  useless  excrescences 
upon  his  work,  Mr.  Meredith  virtually  acknowledges 
the  recklessness  of  his  methods.  In  describing,  too, 
Diana's  novel  The  Cantatrice,  it  is,  we  think,  with  a 
side-glance  at  his  own  works. 

^No  clever  transcript  of  the  dialogue  of  the  day 
occurred/  we  are  told  ;  '  no  hair-breadth  'scapes,  perils 
by  sea  and  land,  heroisms  of  the  hero,  fine  shrieks  of 
the  heroine ;  no  set  scenes  of  catching  pathos  and 
humour;  no  distinguishable  points  of  social  satire, 
equivalent  to  a  smacking  of  the  public  on  the  chaps, 
which  excites  it  to  a  grin  with  keen  discernment  of  the 
author's  intention.  She  did  not  appeal  to  the  senses 
nor  to  a  superficial  discernment.  So  she  had  the 
anticipatory  sense  of  failure ;  and  she  wrote  her  best  in 
perverseness.' 

Mr.  Meredith,  too,  I  think,  has  written  his 
best,  but  in  perverseness.  Not  because  he  has 
avoided,  as  Diana  is  here  described  as  having 
avoided,    the    commonplace   situations,    characters, 

150 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

and  methods  of  the  average  novelist,  has  he  failed 
to   reach  a  wider  audience.     The  author  and  his 
admirers  indeed  bear  themselves  as  if  it  were  so,  but 
they  are  seriously  at  fault.    Not  because  he  has  been 
original  do  we  make  a  quarrel  with  so  remarkable  an 
author— ^Ir.  Meredith's  argument  is  not  too  high, 
nor  his  wit  too  subtle  for  us,— but  because,  it  is  a 
simple  reason,  he  has  been  neglectful  of  important 
artistic    principles    derived    from    the    capitalised 
experience  of  writers  and  readers.     The  audience  is 
not  all  to  blame.     Others  beside  the  sluggish  in 
intellect    dishke     his    mannerisms  —  many    eager 
readers,  many  who  find  in  him  the  most  potent, 
the  most  invigorating  spirit  among  modern  prose 

writers. 

But  Mr.  Meredith  does  not  offend   in  his  style 
alone ;  he  transgresses  the  limits  of  ease  and  clear- 
ness,   he    transgresses    the    limits    of   warrantable 
analysis.     Little  enough  is  often  gleaned  from  the 
torture  to  which  he  so  indefatigably  subjects  his 
characters.     They  yield  less  than  one  expects  when 
examined  on  the  rack  of  his  method.     The  deter- 
mined probing  to  the  bitter  end,  the  following  up 
of  every  thread  of  motive,  every  hereditary  phase 
of  character,  every  temperamental  idiosyncrasy  to 
its  source  is  not  of  necessity  either  entertaining  or 
instructive,  and  Mr.  Meredith  often  fails  to  justify 
it.     The  fixed  introspective  eye  becomes  dim  and 

151 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

loses  its  sense  of  proportion,  and  the  results  of  its 
scrutiny  are  often  disappointing.  Mr.  Meredith 
shows  us  the  human  heart,  but  we  are  not  convinced 
that  his  knowledge,  as  he  would  seemingly  have  us 
believe,  has  really  been  derived  from  a  study  of  it 
under  the  microscope.  He  knows  it  instinctively, 
but  displays  it  otherwise  than  he  has  actually  learned 
it.  He  has  acquired  his  knowledge  in  one  way,  he 
is  for  having  us  acquire  it  in  another.  It  may  also 
indeed  justly  be  remarked  that  it  is  with  the  results 
of  analysis  rather  than  with  its  processes  that  art 
is  primarily  concerned ;  our  interest  centres  in  the 
results.  In  Mr.  Meredith's  novels  the  processes  are 
sometimes  unnecessarily  exposed,  and  we  are  asked 
to  admire  their  ingenuity  rather  than  to  contem- 
plate their  final  expression.  There  is,  when  one 
thinks  of  it,  hardly  one  of  his  brilliant  intellectual 
powers  which  is  not  abused.  Take  his  wit.  The 
creator  of  Diana,  of  Adrian,  the  wise  youth,  of  Col. 
de  Craye,  of  Dr.  Corney,  of  many  another  of  his 
witty  personages,  had  a  plentiful  need  of  wit,  and 
there  are  chapters  in  Feverel  alone  which  may  stand 
beside  the  work  of  any  English  humorist.  Mr. 
Meredith's  witty  personages  too  really  sparkle;  we 
are  not  told  that  their  conversation  is  brilliant,  we 
are  present,  and  hear  it  for  ourselves.  Yet  how 
often  does  it  happen  that  his  wit,  like  his  analysis, 
is  not  helpful.     The  temptation  to  make  even  the 

152 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

average  man  witty  is  in  itself  sufficient  to  betray 
him,  and  we  exclaim,  '  Oh  that  he  should  put  cun- 
ning words  into  their  mouths  to  steal  away  their 
individualities  ! '  Was  there  ever  author  so  ready 
to  sacrifice  his  main  design  to  subsidiary  decoration, 
to  exhibit  his  intellectual  versatility  at  the  expense 
of  his  art  ?  To  me  it  seems  that  every  book  he  has 
written  is  a  dissertation  on  the  superiority  of  his 
genius  to  his  judgment.  It  is  writ  large  over  all 
his  greater  as  well  as  his  lesser  works.  The  great 
outstanding  things  in  literature  are  the  designs  of 
the  masters.  Not  their  language,  not  their  senti- 
ments, not  their  thoughts,  but  the  firm  outline  of 
their  towering  design,  the  disposed  and  ordered 
whole,  conspicuous,  proudly  pre-eminent.  To 
appeal  once  more  to  ancient  art,  that  is  where  the 
Greeks  excelled.  They  saw  to  it  that,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  wrote,  '  the  action  itself,  the  situation  of 
Orestes,  or  Merope,  or  Alcmaeon,  was  to  stand  the 
central  point  of  interest,  unforgotten,  absorbing, 
principal ;  that  no  accessories  were  for  a  moment  to 
distract  the  spectator's  attention  from  this ;  that 
the  tone  of  the  parts  was  to  be  continually  kept 
down,  in  order  not  to  impair  the  grandiose  effect  of 
the  whole."  As  has  been  already  observed,  Mr. 
jMeredith  sets  himself  a  task  infinitely  more  difficult 
than  that  undertaken  by  the  Greek  dramatist.  His 
stage  is  always  crowded  :  in    Vittoria,  for  example, 


Is 


DO 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

the  story  of  the  Italian  rising  of  1848  till  the  battle 
of  Novara,  we  have  a  bewildering  number  o^  dramatis 
personoe^  Austrians,  Italians,  Englishmen,  with  their 
entrances  and  exits ;  it  is  a  turmoil  of  events,  in- 
trigues, passions,  fanaticisms.     But  because  he  has 
set  himself  a  task  of  almost  unexampled  severity, 
because  his  stage  is  so   crowded,  the   interests  so 
numerous  and    varied,  for  this  reason  we  are  the 
more  in  need  of  a  resolute  adherence  to  the  main 
desig-n,  for  this  reason  '  not  a  word  should  be  wasted, 
not  a  sentiment  capriciously  thrown  in."   The  larger 
the  original  conception,  the  more  rigorous  the  ex- 
clusion demanded  by  the  best  traditions  of  art  of 
all  that  is  not  strictly  to  the  purpose,  that  does  not 
further  the  argument  nor  advance  the  movement  of 
the  piece.     If  in  the  Greek  drama,  despite  its  re- 
stricted   sphere,   the   parts    were    so    strictly    sub- 
ordinated to  the  whole,  if  the  poet  found  it  necessary 
to  keep  himself  in  hand,  unless  we  embrace  ideas 
that  differ  toto  coelo  from  those  of  ancient  art,  it  is 
tenfold  more  necessary  in  the  case  of  the  modern 
artist  who  ranges  freely  over  the  whole  domain  of 
human  life.     But  so  busied  is  Mr.  Meredith  with  his 
accessories,  that  to  the  action  in  his  novels,  surely 
an  important  part  of  the  design,  he  is  frequently 
indifferent,  and  it  becomes  occasionally  a  problem 
of   some   difficulty   to   ascertain   what   is   actually 
going  on.     Yet  with  action  the  most  intellectual 

154 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

of  us  are  and  must  remain  more  in  sympathy  than 
with  ideas,  however  subtly  distilled. 

Unhappily  for  fictional  art  the  novelist  has  never 
had  to  please  the  critic ;  he  has  not  been  educated 
in  the  school  of  the  severest  discipline  and  best  tra- 
ditions.     It  has   ever  been  sufficient  if  he  found 
in  himself  a  power  to  tickle  the  public  taste  irre- 
spective of  artistic  conventions  and  artistic  ideals. 
Yet  it  can  hardly  be  considered  idle  to  inquire  for 
the  qualities  which  have  enabled   some  works  to 
endure  the  unrelaxing  test  of  time  through  cen- 
turies, and  to  suggest  that  similar  qualities  may 
be  counted  upon  to  ensure  a  similar  result  in  the 
future.    Not  all  works  of  genius  survive,  though  his 
genius  obtains  present  indulgence  for  Mr.  Meredith. 
Much  may  be  pardoned  to  genius,  even  though  dis- 
played in  a  spasmodic  fashion,  when  there  is  never 
any  doubt  that  it  is  there.     The  knowledge  that 
it  is  there   draws  us   like  a  magnet;  we  read  on 
patiently,  and  now  and  then  we  are  rewarded  for 
our  constancy.     Only  his  genius  too  enables  him  to 
triumph  in  any  measure  over  the  difficulties  with 
which  he  has  strewn  his  own  path  to  success.     And 
as  it  is  he  must  suffer.     Either  the  writer  or  the 
reader  must  take  the  pains,  and  readers  are  con- 
spicuously an  indolent  race. 

We  are  not  inclined  to  think  that  criticism  is 
much  concerned   with   the   fact  that  the  plots  of 

155 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

several  of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels  follow  history  very 
closely,  and  that  some  of  his  dramatis  personce  en- 
joyed an  actual  flesh-and-blood  existence  before 
they  entered  the  shadow-world  of  a  life  in  fiction. 
The  Elizabethan  drama  did  not  exclude  actions  or 
characters  within  the  memory  of  living  men,  and 
fiction  has  always  claimed  the  privilege  of  an  appeal 
to  the  interests  of  the  hour.  Vittoria,  as  has  been 
noticed,  reproduces  the  main  incidents  of  the  Italian 
insurrection  of  1848  ;  in  Beaucliamp's  Caree?'  some- 
thing of  the  political  and  social  life  of  England 
at  the  time  of  the  Crimean  War  is  reproduced ; 
in  LojyI  Ormont  and  his  Aminta  the  author  has 
followed  a  part  of  the  career  of  the  famous  Earl 
of  Peterborough,  who  made  his  reputation  as  a 
soldier  of  genius  at  Valencia,  but,  found  of  too 
imperious  a  temper,  was  recalled  in  1707,  and  in 
1722  privately  married  a  famous  singer,  Anastasia 
Robinson,  who  was  not,  however,  acknowledged  as 
Countess  until  shortly  before  the  death  of  the  Earl. 
In  The  Tragic  Coviedians  Mr.  Meredith  is  indebted 
for  something  more  than  the  mere  framework  of  his 
plot.  It  is,  as  the  author  entitles  it,  '  a  study  in 
a  well-known  story '' — the  story  of  the  loves  of 
Ferdinand  Lassalle,  the  German  Social  Democrat, 
and  Helene  von  Doninges,  afterwards  Frau  von 
Racowitza.  Mr.  Meredith  not  only  follows  the  inci- 
dents which,  in  real  life  as  in  the  novel,  lead  to  the 

156 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

tragic  death  of  Lassalle,  but  is  indebted  for  the 
greater  part  of  his  dialogue  to  an  account  published 
by  Frau  von  Racowitza  of  the  episode  of  her  life, 
entitled  Meine  Bez'iehungen  zu  Ferdinand  Lassalle. 
More  public  interest  has  been  excited,  however,  in 
Mr.  Meredith's  reproduction,  in  Diana  of  the  Cross- 
ways^  of  the  life  and  career  of  Caroline  Norton,  one 
of  the  three  beautiful  granddaughters  of  Sheridan, 
and  sister  of  Lady  Dufferin,  mother  of  the  present 
Marquis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava.  Caroline  Norton's 
marriage  proved  a  most  unhappy  one,  and  her 
friendship  with  Lord  Melbourne,  then  Prime 
^Minister,  led  to  an  unsuccessful  action  for  divorce 
brought  against  her  by  her  husband.  Famous  not 
only  in  society  for  her  beauty  and  her  wit,  Mrs. 
Norton  was  distinguished  as  one  of  the  most  popular 
poets  and  novelists  of  her  time.  Her  writings  were 
characterised  by  their  enthusiastic  advocacy  of 
what  we  mi^ht  now  denominate  the  rights  of 
women.  The  incident  upon  which  the  plot  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  novel  hinges  was  the  storv  (un- 
authentic) of  Mrs.  Norton's  betrayal  to  Barnes, 
the  editor  of  The  Times,  of  the  communication 
made  to  her  in  strict  secrecy  by  one  of  her  most 
ardent  admirers,  Sidney  Herbert,  to  the  effect  that 
Sir  Robert  Peel  and  his  Cabinet  had  resolved  upon 
a  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws.  Whether  Mr.  Meredith 
has  been   successful  in    reconciling   his   readers   to 

157 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

such  a  gross  breach  of  confidence  on  the  part  of 
his  heroine  it  would  be  difficult  to  determine ;  that 
his  explanation  of  her  conduct  is  inadequate,  one 
must  admit.  It  is  the  one  defect  in  an  otherwise 
charming  portrait,  but  possibly  the  author  felt 
himself  justified  in  securing  in  this  fashion  for 
an  otherwise  blameless  lady  that  touch  of  pity 
which  tends  to  deepen  our  sympathy  with  a 
briHiant  and  fascinating,  but  perhaps  not  in 
all  respects  a  winning  or  attractive,  character.  I 
would  place  Diana  of'  the  Crossways  second  to 
The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Fever el^  incontestably  Mr. 
Meredith's  most  perfect  work  from  the  standpoint  of 
art,  as  least  open,  in  spite  of  its  obscurities,  to  the 
charges  of  sluggish  development  and  the  introduc- 
tion of  irrelevant  intellectual  excursions.  What 
Mr.  Meredith  has  to  say  in  his  own  person  in  this 
book  seems  to  harmonise  more  completely  with  its 
subject.  Fever  el,  were  it  not  for  its  ending,  so 
admirably  commented  upon  by  the  late  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  is  indeed  almost  faultless. 

But  if  Richard  Fever  el,  taken  all  in  all,  be  Mr. 
Meredith's  greatest  work.  The  Adventures  of  Harry 
Richmond  is  his  supreme  achievement  in  the  higher 
comedy.  His  portrait  of  Richmond  Roy  is  surely 
the  most  impressive,  the  most  masterful,  in  his  whole 
gallery.  A  character  so  near  the  verge  of  utter  im- 
probability and  yet  convincing,  so  near  the  verge  of 

158 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

scoundrelism  and  yet  attractive,  so  near  the  verge 
of  the  absurd,  yet  so  pathetic.  When  we  think  of 
Richmond  Roy  we  are  no  longer  critical  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  defects.  This  romantic  voyager  in 
dreamland,  this  master  of  the  springs  of  emotion, 
this  sublime  architect  in  cloudland,  this  schemer 
hardly  less  noble  than  the  noble,  lacking  only  some 
trifling  ingredient  to  become  altogether  heroic,  a 
later  Falstaff',  whose  heart  too  is  at  last  broken,  this 
portrait  is  Mr.  Meredith's  outstanding  triumph 
among  many  triumphs.  The  contrast,  too,  between 
Squire  Beltham,  the  vindictive  old  man  who 
stands  for  respectability  and  all  the  best  that 
respectability  has  to  show,  with  the  brilliant 
free  lance  of  the  outer  unconventional  world, 
Richmond  Roy  himself — the  contrast  between 
these  two  antagonistic  types,  and  the  battle  be- 
tween them  for  the  son  of  the  one  and  the  grand- 
son of  the  other,  are  grandly  conceived.  These  two 
tower  over  against  each  other  like  Homeric  com- 
batants, and  their  challenges  and  defiances  are,  like 
their  contest,  Homeric.  If  Feverel  be  Mr.  Meredith's 
most  perfect  work,  this  is  of  all  his  books  the  one 
which  commands  the  fullest  admiration  of  his  genius, 
which  evinces  his  possession  of  the  highest  type  of 
power.  In  The  Egoist  many  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
admirers  find  proof  of  a  greater  achievement ;  but 
Sir    Willoughby    Patterne,   though    evolved    with 

159 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

astonishing  skill,  is  a  far  less  complex  character, 
a  commoner,  a  coarser,  and  a  more  easily  rendered 
type,  without  the  finer  strands  of  poetry  and  ro- 
mance which  are  woven  through  the  heart  and 
brain  of  Richmond  Roy.  And  I  am  not  sure 
that  in  his  delineation  Mr.  Meredith  does  not 
betray  that  uncertainty  of  judgment  which  mars  so 
much  of  his  finest  work.  His  main  appeal  is,  as 
elsewhere,  mainly  to  our  intelligence;  but  the 
appeal  is  here  so  exclusively  to  our  intelligence, 
he  harps  so  remorselessly,  vindictively  we  might 
say,  upon  the  single  string,  he  insists  so  strongly 
upon  the  line  of  his  effect  that,  having  been  early 
convinced,  we  become  in  the  end,  and  indeed  long 
before  the  end,  entirely  wearied.  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne  is  an  Egoist,  and  the  ingenious  methods 
by  which  he  is  driven  to  a  self-revelation  are  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  book  quite  to  our  taste. 
We  are  in  close  sympathy  with  the  invisible  wicked 
imps  in  attendance,  they  '  who  love  to  uncover 
ridiculousness  in  imposing  figures,"  they  who, 
'  whenever  they  catch  sight  of  Egoism,  pitch 
their  camp,  circle  and  squat,  and  forthwith  trim 
their  lanterns  confident  of  the  ludicrous  to  come.' 
But  Mr.  Meredith  is  not  content  to  reveal  the 
Egoist  to  a  private  audience  of  imps  and  readers, 
he  must  be  revealed  to  us  ad  nauseam ;  and  not 
to  us  only,  but  to  his  fiancee,  to  his  relations,  at 

1 60 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

length  to  an  outer  circle  of  friends  and  wor- 
shippers, and  hardly  stops  short  of  a  revelation 
to  the  whole  country-side,  fascinated  and  agape. 
We  can  believe  in  the  Sir  Willoughby  of  the 
earlier  part  of  the  story,  but  as  the  '  comedy 
in  narrative  ''  progresses,  the  Egoist  wounded, 
pierced  by  a  shaft  here  and  there,  loses  the  jaunty 
self-possession  of  the  knight  encased  in  armour  of 
proof,  and  begins  to  stumble  to  and  fro  with  un- 
certain steps.  Then  the  hunt  fairly  sets  in,  and 
Mr.  Meredith,  not  content  with  his  revelation,  cries 
'  Havoc,'  and  lets  loose  the  hounds  of  merciless 
laughter,  who  drive  the  Egoist  before  them,  a 
spent  and  quivering  and  degraded  thing.  He  will 
not  permit  a  pause  in  the  chase  until  the  self- 
possessed  English  gentleman  has  proclaimed  him- 
self ass  and  churl  in  trumpet  tones.  Revelation 
of  his  character  is  not  sufficient ;  the  Egoist  must 
be  whipped  in  public,  and  soundly,  too.  And  the 
portrait,  at  first  that  of  the  true  Egoist,  a  man  of  the 
world,  presents  at  length  the  coarse  and  repellent 
features  of  the  coward  and  the  loon.  Surely  here 
the  author  has  over-analysed  until  his  instinct  left 
him  and  his  discernment  played  him  false.  Nothing 
is  easier  than  to  sacrifice  the  truth  of  a  representa- 
tion by  over-elaboration,  and  here,  in  the  eagerness 
to  display  the  Nemesis  which  dogs  the  steps  of  the 
Egoist,  the  limits  are  passed  which  divide  the  por- 
L  l6i 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

trait  from  the  caricature.  A  degree  overmuch  of 
emphasis,  of  vehemence  in  the  presentation,  mars 
in  our  judgment  the  chief  portrait  in  a  great 
book. 

^The  hardest  and  surest  proof  of  a  great  and  ab- 
solute genius/  says  Mr.  Swinburne,  Ms  the  gift  of 
a  power  to  make  us  feel  in  every  nerve  that  thus 
and  not  otherwise,  but  in  all  things  even  as  we  are 
told  and  shown,  it  was  and  it  must  have  been  with 
the  human  figures  set  before  us  in  their  action  and 
their  suffering,  that  thus  and  not  otherwise  they 
absolutely  must  and  would  have  felt  and  thought  and 
spoken  under  the  proposed  conditions.' 

On  the  application  of  this  test  to  The  Egoist, 
or  indeed  to   any  of  Mr.  Meredith's   novels,  one 
finds   that    the    inevitable   is    at    times    replaced 
in  his  narrative  by  the  unexpected  or   the  unin- 
telligible.      The    degree    overmuch    of    vehemence 
is  not  in   The   Egoist   only  a  hostile  element  to 
the  ejffect  of  his  art ;   it  is  characteristic   of  him 
that  the  shorter  time   he   is   about   it   the   more 
perfect  are  his  results — he  begins  better  than  he 
leaves  off.     Truth  of  outline,  truth  of  tone,  but 
not  truth  of  detail,  belong  to  his  characterisation. 
Mr.  Meredith  misses  then  the  point  in  art  which 
suppresses  the  irrelevant  or    the   accidental,  and, 
dependent  as  it  is  upon  his  judgment,  his  humour 
of  phrase   is   not   always   successful,   his    wit   not 

162 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

always  wise.  The  ingenious  arabesque  of  thought 
is  frequently  not  justified  by  subordination  to  a 
purpose ;  the  coruscation  of  fanciful  imagery  lends 
no  elucidating  light.  But  how  different  is  it  with 
his  humour  of  view,  the  humour  that  belongs  to 
his  mental  attitude,  his  outlook  over  life,  the 
humour  that  is  of  the  essence  of  his  genius.  See 
it  at  work  in  the  creation  of  a  character,  even  of 
secondary  importance,  like  Colonel  de  Craye,  or 
Mrs.  Berry,  or  Lord  Romney,  '  a  gentleman  whose 
character  it  was  to  foresee  most  human  events."* 
See  it  in  the  lambent  irony  which  pervades  and 
leavens  his  books.  What  an  extraordinary  breadth 
of  humorous  appreciation  of  life  is  his  ! — now  he 
calls  for  jeering  Aristophanic  laughter,  now  it  is 
the  humour  of  pathetic  situations,  now  of  the 
great  and  now  of  the  little  incongruities  of  life 
that  move  him.  It  is  in  the  breadth  of  his  humour 
and  in  the  breadth  of  his  characterisation  that 
Mr.  Meredith's  greatness  consists ;  in  his  intel- 
lectual penetration  and  his  imaginative  range. 
His  method  involves  revelation  of  character  by 
analysis,  but  analysis  conducted  while  his  per- 
sonages pass  through  the  fire  of  some  crucial 
position,  or  are  subjected  to  the  shock  of  cir- 
cumstance, as  of  Beauchamp  tested  amid  the 
conflict  of  party  politics,  or  Emilia  drawn  '  at 
once  by  love  of  country  and  passion  for  her  lover. 

163 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

And  that  the  only  fatality  is  the  fatality  of  char- 
acter is  a  truth  driven  home  in  all  Mr.  Meredith's 
greater  novels.  Thus  is  his  tragedy  human,  and 
thus  it  comes  that  it  is  not  depressing.  Human 
life  is  never  represented  in  his  novels  as  tragic, 
because  an  iron  necessity  drives  man  whither  he 
would  not  go ;  but  tragic  only  when  a  free  choice 
is  unwisely  made,  or  when  passion  guides,  or  when 
the  stress  of  storm  finds  the  spirit  too  weak  or 
unresourceful  to  meet  and  endure  it.  In  all  the 
greater  novels,  too,  which  may  be  said  to  end 
with  The  Egoist,  Mr.  Meredith's  style,  when 
at  its  best,  has  the  elasticity  of  steel  with  its 
strength.  Like  a  '  sword  of  Spain,  the  ice-brook's 
temper,'  it  can,  within  the  moment,  bend  like  a 
bow  and  spring  again  to  the  bright,  quivering, 
darting  line  that  bears  the  inexsuperable  point. 
And  with  all  its  faults,  it  is  a  robust  organic 
style  that  suits  its  subject.  One  might  trace  in 
it  many  influences,  and  that  in  spite  of  its  dis- 
tinctive peculiarities.  In  a  sentence  such  as  this, 
'Their  common  candle  wore  with  dignity  the 
brigand's  hat  of  midnight,  and  cocked  a  drunken 
eye  at  them  from  under  it,'  one  seems  to  hear 
the  voice  of  Dickens ;  in  RJioda  Fleming  there 
are  passages  which  George  Eliot  might  have 
written;  the  hand  of  Thackeray  -might  have 
assisted  in  the  creation  of  Jack  Raikes  in  Evan 

164 


THE  NOVELS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Harrington-,  Carlyle's  Teutonic  style  in  full  blast 
is  displayed  in  Farina.  Yet  in  its  strength  and 
weakness  it  is  wholly  its  creator's;  on  this  page 
magnificent  and  unsurpassable,  on  the  next  in- 
tolerable and  unreadable.  The  ordinary  man,  it 
has  been  said,  is  satisfied  to  see  something  going 
on,  the  man  of  more  intelligence  must  be  made  to 
feel,  the  man  of  high  cultivation  must  be  made 
to  reflect.  To  the  society  of  the  highly  cultivated 
Mr.  Meredith  makes  his  appeal,  and  not  without 
response.  But  had  his  judgment  equalled  his 
genius,  he  would,  I  believe,  have  appealed  to 
them  past  all  resistance,  as  no  English  novelist 
has  yet  appealed  to  them,  in  an  appeal  that 
would  have  been  irresistible  for  all  time. 


165 


THE   ROMANTIC  REVIVAL  ^ 

The   terms   classic    and   romantic,   freely   bandied 
about  in  the  literary  criticism  of  the  last  hundred 
years,  can   hardly  be    said    to  have   attained    any 
definite  connotation,  any  sharp  precision  of  mean- 
ing.    The   classic   authors,  par  excellence,  are  the 
ancients,  the  makers  of  the  literatures  of  Greece 
or  Rome ;  and  the  classics  of  our  own  or  any  other 
literature  are  the   writers  who  best   represent   it, 
who  have  given  to  it  whatever  of  beauty  or  of 
dignity   it   may  possess.     Thus   far  we   speak  the 
language  of  the  market-place,  and  are  intelligible 
to  the  average  citizen  ;  but  if  we  adopt  the  phrases 
of  the  schools,  if  we  speak  of  the  classics  of  our 
own  literature  as  romantic  in  temper ;  of  some  of 
the  ancients,  like  Virgil,  as  no  less  so ;  if  we  speak 
of  classic  subjects  as  treated  by  Marlowe  or  Shelley 
in  the  romantic  manner,  or  of  romantic  subjects  by 
Keats  and  Byron  in  the  classic  couplet,  we  intro- 
duce  conceptions  to  the  comprehension    of  which 
a  course  of  literary    history    is   the    only    avenue. 

1  The  Beginnings  of  the  English  Roma?itic  Movement,  by  W.  L. 
Phelps. 

i66 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

It   is,   indeed,    neither    possible   nor    desirable   to 
harden  into  absolute  definition  the  general  sense 
suggested    by   these     terms,    but     because,    how- 
ever loosely  they  may  be  applied,  they  represent 
certain  real  characteristics,  represent  each  a  clearly 
marked  group  or  blend  of  qualities,  we  are  called 
upon   to  retain   them,  and  to  render  to  ourselves 
some  account  of  them.     The  term  classic  needs  no 
interpretation  as  regards  origin — that  which  belongs 
to  the  first  class — but  a  serviceable  suggestion  may 
be  gleaned  from  the  origin  of  the  term  romantic. 
When  the  northern  barbarians  streamed  through 
the  various  gates  of  the  declining  Roman  empire, 
and,  victorious,  imposed  their  rule  upon  the  con- 
quered Romans,   they    rendered  a  homage  to    the 
power  that  once  had  ruled  the  world  by  acknow- 
ledging the  language  of  the  conquered  inhabitants 
as  the  language  which  best  represented  the  results 
of    civilisation,    as    the    language    proper   to   the 
church,  the  school,  and  the  law,  the  lingua  Latina. 
But  beside  the  purer  language  of  the  scholar,  they 
found  flourishing  a  language  of  the  people,  lingua 
Romana  rustica,  and  with  this  the  language  of  the 
conquering    tribes    was    eventually   mingled.     The 
mother  Latin  thus  became  the  parent  of  several 
daughters,  the  Romance  languages.     By  Romance 
of  course  we  mean  no   longer  a  language,  but  a 
type  of  composition,  of  which  the  poems  and  tales 

167 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

of  the  troubadours  were  the  earliest  specimens  ,• 
and  as  the  new  conditions  of  life  gave  birth  to  a 
literature  which  differed  not  merely  in  form,  but  in 
spirit  and  tone  from  the  older  literature,  we  come 
into  possession  of  a  term  which  is  descriptive  of  that 
spirit  and  tone.  Thus  from  the  moment  at  which 
Renaissance  influences  are  first  apparent  in  our  own 
literature,  the  need  arises  to  distinguish  by  the 
terms  classic  and  I'omantk  the  two  clearly  defined 
tendencies  in  art,  the  two  clearly  marked  lines  of 
artistic  purpose  discernible  in  the  work  of  English 
writers.  It  may  be  said  of  Chaucer  that  he  was  at 
school  in  France  and  at  the  university  in  Italy ; 
his  early  poetical  education  was  obtained  in  the 
school  of  the  Romance  writers,  his  later  in  the  school 
of  the  Classical  Revival.  But  the  impulse  generated 
by  the  Renaissance  in  the  direction  of  a  study 
and  imitation  of  the  classic  literatures,  though  it 
assisted  in  the  technical  education  of  the  English 
poets  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  did  not,  as  in  France, 
exert  an  immediate  and  overpowering  influence 
upon  our  literature.  In  the  Elizabethan  drama, 
as  represented  by  Marlowe  and  by  Shakespeare, 
the  romantic  temper  predominates,  the  romantic 
spirit  is  triumphant. — 

'  Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ? 
Sweet  Helen^  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss  ! ' 

1 68 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

^  I  dreamt  there  was  an  emperor  Antony  ; — 
O,  such  another  sleep^  that  I  might  see 
But  such  another  man  !  .   ,   . 
His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean ;  his  reared  arm 
Crested  the  workl :  his  voice  was  propertied 
As  all  the  tuued  spheres^  ...  in  his  livery 
^Falked  crowns  and  crownets  ;  realms  and  islands  were 
As  plates  dropped  from  his  pocket.' 

Such  passages  vibrate  to  the  true  romantic  string, 
but  while  the  spirit  of  romance  predominates  in 
Elizabethan  literature,  while  the  romantic  note 
rings  clear  above  all  others  in  it,  a  tendency 
may  be  read  there,  which  was  destined  to  outlast 
the  romantic,  was  destined  to  a  later,  but  no  less 
complete  a  triumph.  While  Marlowe,  and  Spenser, 
and  Shakespeare  pursued  the  path  along  which  they 
were  guided  by  their  own  genius  and  the  stronger 
impulses  of  the  time,  Ben  Jonson,  who  was  student 
and  scholar  no  less  than  poet,  pondering  over  the 
precedents  and  principles  of  art  as  exhibited  in 
the  works  of  ancient  literature,  endeavoured  to 
frame  for  himself  an  apparatus  ciiticus  of  precept 
and  example,  and  as  early  as  Spenser's  university 
days  a  group  of  scholars  and  critics  were  ready  to 
agree  with  Ascham  that  '  our  rude  beggarly  rhyming 
was  first  brought  into  Italy  by  Goths  and  Huns, 
when  all  good  verses  and  all  good  learning  were 
destroyed  by  them.' 

In   France    the  Renaissance    ideals    achieved  an 

169 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

immediate  triumph,  and  from  the  foundation  of 
the  Academy  in  1635,  those^  ideals  were  enthroned 
in  absolute  authority,  and  the  reign  of  the  classical 
tradition  assured.  The  English  authors  of  the 
Elizabethan  period  remained  for  the  most  part 
untrammelled  by  the  classic  tradition,  about  which 
they  knew  or  cared  little,  and  Jonson  and  Milton, 
who  may  be  regarded  as  in  one  sense  the  last 
of  the  Elizabethans,  were  the  first  great  English 
writers  who  followed  by  deliberate  choice  the  tradi- 
tions of  classical  rather  than  of  English  literature. 
Thus  gradually  was  it,  and  not  until  the  appeal 
made  upon  the  imagination  by  the  widening 
horizons  of  the  physical  and  intellectual  worlds 
began  to  prove  less  potent  and  stimulating,  that 
the  influence  of  the  new  learning  makes  itself  fully 
felt,  and  the  studies  of  the  scholars  shape  the  ideals 
of  the  republic  of  letters.  What,  then,  were  the 
qualities  which  the  Renaissance  found  so  admirable 
in  the  works  of  the  ancients,  what  potent  charm 
resided  in  those  qualities  strong  enough  to  create 
an  enthusiasm  for  the  classic  literatures  which, 
ripened  later  into  something  like  a  superstitious 
regard  for  them  as  divinely  perfect,  as  literatures 
beside  which  those  of  the  Romance  languages  were 
merely  barbarous  or  Gothic  ? 

All    art    springs    from    the    instinctive    human 
worship  of  the  ideal,  of  perfection :  art  celebrates 

170 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

beauty,  and  ministers  to  the  human  desire  for  it. 
But  to  some  races,  as  to  some  individuals,  certain 
aspects  of  beauty  make  the  most  persuasive  appeal, 
and  to  others  certain  other  aspects.  For  one  man 
the  highest  note  in  poetry  is  struck  by  such  a 
passage  as  this  from  Wordsworth  :— 

'  The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies  ; 
\\^hile  we  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 
We  men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish  :— be  it  so  ! 
Enough  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour : 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent 

dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know.' 

For  another,  the  cup  of  intellectual  delight  brims 
over  when  magic  accents  such  as  these  from  Cole- 
ridge fall  upon  his  ear  : — 

'  In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea.' 

To  the  Greeks,  the  beauty  which  resides  in  form, 
in  perfect  proportions,  made  the  most  powerful 
appeal  ;  hence  in  their  sculpture,  and  in  their  archi- 
tecture, the  Greeks  became  the  masters  of  the 
world.     The   classic  spirit  in  art,  too,  is  for   ever 

171 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

associated  with  sharpness  of  intellectual  outline, 
precision  of  design,  with  purity,  and  calm,  and 
order.  '  What  is  there  lovely  in  poetry,"  says 
Landor,  'unless  there  be  moderation  and  com- 
posure ? '  The  qualities  which  the  Renaissance 
found  admirable  in  ancient  art  were  those  which 
distinguished  it  from  the  romantic,  the  qualities  of 
simplicity,  repose,  precision,  order.  These  it  found 
admirable  because  the  mediaeval  world  knew  beauty 
under  other  and  differing  guises,  and  the  noble 
simplicities  of  ancient  art  once  known  asserted  a 
sovereign  power.  The  aim  of  the  classic  artist — 
one  may  read  it  on  every  surviving  work,  on  every 
magnificent  fragment — was  to  elevate  rather  than 
to  affect ;  the  aim  of  the  romantic  artist  to  affect, 
and  again  affect,  and  once  again  affect.  Thus  classic 
art  is  dominated  by  the  conception  that  only  what 
is  fully  grasped,  completely  realised  and  understood, 
is  suitable  for  artistic  treatment ;  mediaeval  art  is 
eager  to  suggest  a  significance,  a  depth  of  meaning, 
such  as  may,  with  however  vague  imaginings,  dilate 
the  soul. 

Christian  revelation,  with  its  introduction  of 
truths  beyond  precise  comprehension,  carried  the 
artist  of  the  middle  ages,  into  dealing  with  human 
life  as  an  island  in  an  ocean  of  mystery,  but 
an  ocean  across  which  the  light  of  heaven  shone, 
across  which  the    saints  of  God  continually  were 

172 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

privileged  to  journey.  While,  then,  the  classic 
spirit  in  art  is  associated  with  form,  and  calm, 
and  order,  the  mediaeval  is  suffused  with  colour, 
enthusiasm,  and  mystery ;  for  the  one  believed  in 
the  senses  and  fed  them  with  beauty,  keeping  as  its 
ideal,  '  self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control,' 
the  other  discredited  the  earthly  senses,  and  had 
for  its  ideal  self-abandonment,  a  knowledsfe  of 
God,  and  spiritual  raptures.  Approaching  truth 
by  analysis,  Greek  art  draws  in  outline  and  speaks 
a  direct  language ;  approaching  truth  by  intuition 
and  faith,  Christian  art  paints  in  colour  and  speaks 
in  symbol.  The  Greek,  like  Sophocles,  believed  in 
the  real  world  with  all  its  certainties.  He  saw  all 
that  he  did  see  wdth  unfailing  clearness  of  vision, 
and  the  spirit  of  precision  and  simplicity  bear  rule 
in  the  sphere  of  his  artistic  creation.^  The  Christian 
of  the  middle  ages,  like  Dante,  believed  in  an 
invisible  world,  with  all  its  terrors  and  splendours 
seen  only  by  the  eye  of  the  soul ;  and  enthusiasm, 
inspired  fervour,  emotional  glow,  and  a  sense  of 
reverence  and  of  awe  are  the  marks  of  his  art. 

In  their  reproduction  of  life  in  art  the  ancients, 
then,  aimed  at  clearness  and  sharpness  of  out- 
line, both  in  idea  and  language,  and  were  thus 
content  to  win  acceptance,  not  so    much  through 

^  I  have  here  and  elsewhere  in  this  paper  made  use  of  one  or 
two  sentences  of  my  own  previously  published. 

^7Z 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

the  excitement  resident  in  the  subject  as  through 
their  treatment  of  it.  '  The  charm  of  what  is 
classical  in  art  or  literature,"  wrote  Mr.  Pater,  '  is 
that  of  the  well-known  tale,  to  which  we  can  never- 
theless listen  over  and  over  again,  because  it  is  told 
so  well.  ...  It  is  the  addition  of  strangeness  to 
beauty  that  constitutes  the  romantic  character  in 
art.  ...  It  is  the  addition  of  curiosity  to  the 
desire  for  beauty  that  constitutes  the  romantic 
temper.'  '  The  essence  of  romance  is  mystery,"  says 
another  critic  ;  '  it  is  the  sense  of  something  hidden, 
of  imperfect  revelation."  The  romantic  artist, 
not  content  with  the  sharp,  clear  outline  of  the 
classical  artist,  desires  to  suggest,  to  arouse  the 
feeling  of  expectation  or  of  awe,  of  something  yet 
untold.  '  Clear,  unimpassioned  presentation  of  the 
subject,  whether  done  in  prose  or  verse,  is  the  pro- 
minent feature  of  the  classical  style."  We  may 
speak  of  the  classical  artist  as  disinterested  :  he 
stands  aloof  from  his  creations,  they  betray  no 
trace  of  his  personal  affections,  dislikes,  enthusiasms. 
'  Homer,"  says  Landor,  '  is  subject  to  none  of  the 
passions,  but  he  sends  them  all  forth  on  their 
errands  with  as  much  precision  as  Apollo  his  golden 
arrows." 

While,  then,  ancient  or  classic  art  takes  the 
world  as  it  finds  it,  and  imports  into  it  no  personal 
element,  and  few  moral  and  intellectual  problems, 

174 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

the  romantic  artist  declines  to  accept  the  present  and 
visible  as  the  only  sphere  for  art ;  and  seeking  in 
his  own  mind  for  sentiments  and  ideas,  presents  a 
new  world,  composed  of  the  world  as  it  appears  to 
sense  together  with  another,  the  world  as  it  might 
be,  or  will  be,  or  ought  to  be,  or  perhaps,  if  all 
were  known,  really  is,  a  world  drawn  from  his 
ideals,  and  feelings,  and  desires.  Romanticism 
rejoices  in  the  freshness  and  the  glory  of  the 
exhaustless  vistas  and  changing  emotional  and 
spiritual  perspectives  of  the  world ;  classicism  in 
the  sharply  defined  presentations  of  the  intellect, 
the  victory  of  reason  over  emotion  as  well  as  over 
the  baffling  problems  of  the  soul.  '  All  art,"*  said 
Mr.  Pater,  '  constantly  aspires  towards  the  con- 
ditions of  music"*;  and  again  it  has  been  contended 
that  the  very  perfection  of  lyrical  poetry,  which  is 
artistically  the  highest  and  most  complete  form  of 
poetry,  seems  to  depend  on  '  a  certain  suppression 
or  vagueness  of  mere  subject.''  These  are  dicta  from 
the  notebook  of  the  romantic  critic.  He  speaks  of 
mere  subject ;  with  him  the  perfection  of  poetry  is 
reached  when  meaning  is  almost  lost  in  an  excess  of 
sensuous  suc^orestiveness.    He  desires  to  affect.    With 

CiC) 

Aristotle  the  lyric  was  not  the  highest  and  most 
complete  form  of  poetry,  and  architectonics,  con- 
structive power,  design,  ranked  far  above  the  mere 
accessories   of  music  and  diction.     He  desires  to 

175 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

elevate.  If  bred  in  the  classical  school,  the  critic's 
first  requirement  in  poetry  is  that  it  should  be 
articulate,  else  how  can  it  serve  the  reason  ?  Mr. 
Matthew  ArnoWs  preference  was  consequently 
enlisted  on  the  side  of  the  poetry  which  made  for 
intellectual  clearness  and  moral  force,  for  the 
poetry  which  touched  life  at  the  greatest  number 
of  points  of  human  interest,  and  illuminated  or 
interpreted  it.  The  most  artistic  poetry  for  Mr. 
Arnold  was  poetry  such  as  this  : — 

'  If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  hearty 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile^ 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  with  pain 
To  tell  my  story.' 

With  Mr.  Pater  it  would  have  been  poetry  such 
as  this,  which  weaves  a  fantasy  around  the  song  of 
the  nightingale  : — 

^  The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  ; 

Perhaps  the  selfsame  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth^  when,  sick  for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 

The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.' 

When  one  is  asked  to  make  choice  between  pas- 
sages such  as  these,  exhibiting  poetry  at  its  best  in 
different  moods,  one  is  reminded  of  the  children''s 
game  in  which   the   delicate   question   is   secretly 

176 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

proposed  to  each  player  in  turn,  '  Would  you  rather 
have  a  golden  apple  or  a  golden  pear?'  and  the 
answer  enlists  him  in  one  or  other  of  two  opposing 
camps.  Some  of  us  insist  on  the  qualities  of  the 
golden  apple,  on  truth  and  high  seriousness,  on 
intellectual  and  moral  insight  in  poetry ;  some  on 
the  qualities  of  the  golden  pear,  on  sensuous  and 
emotion-stirring  powers,  on  perfume  and  bouquet, 
on  music  and  mystery.  There  exists  no  need  at 
this  time  to  rank  the  apple  before  the  pear,  or 
to  disparage  its  qualities  beside  those  of  its  more 
luscious  companion.  But  we  must  note  that  from 
the  moment  at  which  the  fountains  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan inspiration  began  to  fail,  and  writers  with 
a  student's  enthusiasm  to  seek  for  principles  to 
guide  their  efforts,  the  qualities  of  ancient  poetry 
attracted  a  continually  deepening  and  widening 
appreciation.  Yet  because  the  genius  of  Greek 
literature  declined  to  yield  up  the  secret  of  its 
subtle  perfections  to  an  age  in  which  scholarship 
was  young,^  the  English  writers  of  the  Augustan 
age  failed  to  reproduce  anything  of  the  Greek  spirit 
in  their  work,  and  were  successful  only  in  reproduc- 
ing something  of  the  spirit  of  Latin  literature,  a 

1  Bentley's  comment  upon  Pope's  Homer— ^  K  very  pretty  poem, 
Mr.  Pope,  but  you  must  not  call  it  Homer ' — may  perhaps  stand  as 
the  first  record  in  English  of  a  true  appreciation  of  the  distinctive 
genius  of  Greek  poetry. 

M  1/7 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

literature  imitative  and  disciplined,  majestic  but 
measured,  regular,  orderly,  formal,  sober  in  subject 
and  manner.  Propriety  of  language,  correctness 
and  precision,  restraint  and  moderation,  these 
words  express  the  lessons  learned  from  the  Roman 
authors  by  Dryden  and  his  successors.  And  in 
the  sphere  of  prose  the  lessons  were  of  inestim- 
able value.  The  gain  to  English  poetry  is  not  so 
obvious.  However  willing  we  may  be  to  retain  for 
the  school  of  Pope  and  Johnson  the  title  of  the 
classical  school  of  English  poetry,  it  is  evident  that 
the  writers  who  belonged  to  it  neither  appreciated 
profoundly  the  true  character  of  Hellenic  and 
Roman  art,  nor  did  they  succeed  in  imitating  it 
with  the  closeness  desired.  Dryden  and  Pope 
and  Johnson  exhibit  the  qualities  of  simplicity, 
repose,  precision,  and  these  have  been  named  as 
classic  qualities.  But  they  attain  them  by  limiting 
the  scope  of  their  undertakings.  They  are  simple 
because  they  deal  only  with  the  familiar  facts  of 
life ;  calm,  because  they  have  never  known  what  it 
is  to  be  profoundly  moved ;  precise,  because  they 
merely  repeat  in  terser  phrase  the  current  opinions 
of  the  time.  Simplicity,  repose,  precision  are  only 
admirable  and  precious,  are  only  classic,  when 
threatened  by  imaginative  wealth,  emotional  fer- 
vour, intellectual  profundity.  But  the  poets  of  the 
Augustan  age  were  in  perfect  security  from  these 

178 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

splendid  dangers.  Pope,  as  Johnson  said,  '  wrote 
in  such  a  manner  as  might  expose  him  to  few 
hazards."  The  times,  indeed,  were  not  in  need  of 
poetry ;  prose  satisfied  the  pressing  intellectual 
needs  of  the  majority.  How  little  was  the  neces- 
sity felt  for  poetry  at  all  is  seen  in  the  words  of 
Pope  :  '  I  chose  verse  because  I  could  express  ideas 
more  shortly  than  in  prose  itself."  Pope  chose 
verse  not  because  he  felt  the  need  of  verse,  but 
because  he  found  it  a  superior  kind  of  prose.  It 
might  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  with  the  majority 
at  any  period  prose  answers  every  need  of  their 
natures.  But  with  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  came  a  demand  for  something  more  than  a 
superior  prose,  and  we  may  think  accurately  of  the 
Romantic  Revival  as  a  reaction  in  favour  of  poetry 
as  against  prose.  The  qualities  which  the  writers 
of  the  Augustan  age  lacked,  even  in  their  poetry, 
were  precisely  the  qualities  which  make  poetry, 
which  go  to  distinguish  it  from  prose,  and  the 
Romantic  Revival  was  the  outcome  of  a  need  for 
a  medium  of  fuller  expression  felt  by  the  spiritual 
and  emotional  part  of  human  nature,  which  had 
for  a  time  suffered  eclipse.  The  character  of 
English  literature  in  the  eighteenth  century  may 
be  summed  up  by  saying  that  its  appeal  was  an 
appeal  almost  exclusively  to  the  intelligence ;  it 
looked  upon  man  as  if  he  were  of  intelligence  all 

179 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

compact,  and  was  not  ruled  by  feeling  and  instinct 
and  authority  and  fancy  in  a  greater  degree  than 
by  the  lucubrations  of  his  reason.  The  Romantic 
Revival  enthroned  in  the  room  of  reason  and  of 
law,  aspirations,  desires,  ideals — in  a  word,  absolute 
though  unattainable  perfection  in  the  place  of  re- 
lative perfection,  represented  by  tolerable  social 
and  political  institutions.  With  the  Revolution 
at  the  end  of  the  century  came  the  idea  of 

^  the  ultimate  angels'  law, 
Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul^ 
There  where  law^  life^  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing.' 

It  may  be  paradoxical  to  assert  that  the  interests 
of  the  Augustan  age  were  not  literary  or  artistic, 
that  they  were  political  or  religious ;  but  the  litera- 
ture of  the  period  is  a  series  of  practical  and  polemi- 
cal pamphlets,  prose  and  verse,  into  which  are  com- 
pressed the  best  ideas,  the  most  cogent  arguments 
connected  with  questions  of  the  day.  'Subjects  of 
importance  to  society  "*  were  the  poet"'s  themes, 
what  interested  'the  Town'  his  business.  Hence 
is  it  that  the  age  of  Anne  adored  in  literature 
the  neat,  the  finished,  the  complete,  in  a  word  the 
finite,  and  the  men  of  letters  chose  to  treat  in 
art  only  such  subjects  as  lent  themselves  to  a  pre- 
sentation in  sharp,  clear  outlines,  topics  in  which 
no  mystery  lurked,  and  upon  which  expressions  of 
final  opinion  were  possible.     Thus  was  the  sphere 

1 80 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

of  art  cabiii'd  and  confined,  and  no  room  could 
be  found  for  lyric  poetry  in  a  generation  whose 
interests  were  practical,  and  could  not  therefore  be 
sung  about. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  such  an  age  should 
dislike  obscurity  and  extravagance,  enthusiasm  or 
intemperate  emotion,  and  should  correspondingly 
admire  clearness,  precision,  moderation,  and  common- 
sense  ;  that  it  should  ridicule  the  '  metaphysical "" 
poets  who  had  carried  the  Elizabethan  character- 
istics to  excess  ;  that  it  should  hold  as  barbarous  and 
Gothic  Spenser  and  Marlowe,  and  prefer  Chaucer 
in  a  version  by  Dryden ;  that  it  should  lack  interest 
in  nature,  and  find  in  the  social  life  of  the  town 
the  only  pleasures  worthy  of  the  cultivated  man. 

It  will  not  do  to  think  of  the  Romantic  Revival 
as  a  protest  against  classical  qualities  in  poetry,  or 
as  arising;  out  of  a  mere  desire  for  the  new  and 
strange ;  it  had  its  origin  in  a  gradual  recognition 
of  the  inadequate  account  virtually  taken  of  human 
nature  by  the  current  mode  of  thought  in  the  early 
eighteenth  century.  Even  during  the  undisputed 
sovereignty  of  the  Augustan  tradition,  an  indivi- 
dual author  here  and  there  showed  in  his  writings 
that  he  harboured  treasonable  ideas.  A  ^  writer 
like  Allan  Ramsay  not  only  harboured  treasonable 
ideas,  but  indulged  in  treasonable  practices.  As 
Principal  Shairp  says,  '  Ramsay  had  the  courage,  in 

i8i 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

a  conventional  time  both  in  English  and  Scottish 
poetry,  to  recognise  and  be  true  to  the  manners, 
the  simple  everyday  life,  the  rural  character,  and 
the    scenery    of    his    native    land.'      Others,   like 
Parnell  and  William  Hamilton,  the  author  of  the 
Braes  of  Yarrow,  might  be  cited  as  secret  traitors, 
the  pioneers  of  revolution.     We  can  conceive  the 
more   imaginative   minds    of    the   time   protesting 
that  the  world  of  moderation  and  good  taste  and 
common-sense  was  a  somewhat  dull  world,  in  which 
there   was  little  to  interest  and  less  to  attract  or 
charm  ;  we  can  conceive  the  growth  of  an  appetite 
for  something  more  emotional  in  poetry  or  more 
stimulating  in  philosophy.      The  tide  of  opinion 
gradually  rose  until  it  became  possible  for  heresy 
to  appear  in  print  unabashed,  such  heresy  as  Joseph 
Warton's,  for  example,  who  wrote  in  1756  :  '  I  revere 
the    memory  of  Pope,  I    respect   and   honour   his 
abilities,  but  I  do  not  think  him  at  the  head  of 
his  profession.     In  other  words,  in  that  species  of 
poetry  wherein  Pope  excelled,  he  is  superior  to  all 
mankind,  and  I  only  say  that  this  species  of  poetry 
is  not  the  most  excellent  one  of  the   art.'     That 
in  the  representative   poetry   of  the   time  certain 
qualities  essential  to  poetry   were  absent,  that  in 
the  representative  philosophy  of  the  time  only  a 
small  part  of  the  actual  truth   about   things  was 
told,  could  only  be  convictions  of  gradual  growth. 

182 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

In  the  real  world,  in  the  world  there  could  be  no 
mistake  about,  the  eighteenth  century  had  a  pro- 
found belief.     But  common-sense  realism  turns  its 
back  upon  truth  by  declining  to  investigate  it.     And 
in  effect  we  can  imagine  the  early  Romanticists  ask- 
ing the  exasperating  question,  What  is  the  real  world? 
In  the  account  given  of  the  universe  by  some  enthu- 
siastic scientists  a  generation  ago,  the  eighteenth- 
century  point  of  view  recurred,  and  w^hen  the  meta- 
physician   inquired    innocently    enough,    What    is 
the  real  world  ?  he  acted  again  the  part  uncon- 
sciously played  in  the  domain  of  aesthetics  by  the 
revolutionaries.      The  world  of  eighteenth-century 
art  and  philosophy  was  the  world  so  far  as  it  was 
thoroughly  understood.     But  the  world  as  far  as  it 
is  fully  understood  falls  far  short  of  the  real  world, 
said  the  Romanticists.     The  sphere  of  art  is  not  the 
apparent  world  of  reality  :  to  art  belongs  the  right 
and  privilege  of  entrance  into  the  larger  reality, 
it  emancipates  man  from  the  bondage  of  his  little 
circumscribed  life  of  conventions  and  customs  and 
routine,  and  makes  him  a  citizen  of  the  universe. 
And  so  when  Mr.  Pater  says,  '  It  is  the  addition  of 
strangeness  to  beauty  that  constitutes  the  romantic 
character  in  art,'  he  is  expressing  only  a  half-truth, 
for  a  large  part  of  the  delight  which  the  poetry 
of  Romanticism  can  give  arises  out  of  a  recognition 
that  the  poet  has  penetrated  to  a  higher  sphere  of 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

reality  than  that  in  which  we  are  accustomed  to 
move,  and  we  appreciate  not  the  strangeness  but 
the  truth  of  his  conception.  Take  the  nature 
poetry  of  Wordsworth — take  a  poem  Kke  that 
entitled  The  Education  of  Nature: — 

^  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower. 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 
This  Child  1  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face."  ' 

Is  this  a  string  of  conceits,  or  is  it  a  profound 
philosophy  ?      If  your  feelings  respond   to    verses 

184 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

such  as  these,  you  are  a  true  child  of  the  Romantic 
Revival,  or  rather  you  are  a  human  being  with  needs 
other  than  mere  intellectual  needs,  a  human  being 
open  to  impressions  from  'worlds  unrealised,'  and 
possessed  of  sympathies  which  admit  you  into  the 
secret  councils  of  the  universal  mind.  But  it 
cannot  be  too  frequently  emphasised  that  the 
Romantic  Revival  was  not  a  revolt  against  the 
methods  of  ancient  classic  art;  a  revolt  rather 
ao-ainst  the  poetry  which  addressed  itself  exclusively 
to  the  intelligence,  and  which  had  arisen  out  of  an 
appreciation  of  certain  qualities  of  Latin  poetry 
that  were  readily  apparent  in  it,  and  characteristic 
of  its  peculiar  genius.  It  was  a  protest  raised 
by  the  imagination  and  the  emotions.  And  that 
protest  was  first  made  in  the  reaction  against  the 
heroic  couplet,  a  form  specially  adapted  for  the 
poetry  of  syllogism  and  epigram,  of  satire  and  dis- 
sertation, and  almost  exclusively  employed  in  the 
unemotional  and  unimaginative  verse  of  the  time. 

All  through  the  eighteenth  century  was  waged 
the  literary  controversy  between  the  defenders  of 
the  heroic  couplet  against  blank  verse  and  the 
unconscious  forerunners  of  the  Romantic  school  who 
attacked  it.  The  value  of  rhyme  was  found  by 
Dryden  to  be,  that  'it  bounds  and  circumscribes  the 
fancy.  For  imagination  in  a  poet  is  a  faculty  so 
wild  and  lawless,  that,  like  a  high-ranging  spaniel, 

185 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

it  must  have  clogs  tied  to  it,  lest  it  outrun  the 
judgment.       The    great    easiness    of    blank    verse 
renders  the  poet  too  luxuriant/  ^   Or  in  other  words, 
moderation,  restraint,  regularity,  order,  what  is  there 
in  poetry  which  can  compensate  for  the  absence  of 
these?      The  first  poem  of  any  importance   after 
Milton,    written    in    blank    verse,  was   Thomson's 
Seasons    in    1726,   the   next   was   Young's   Night 
Thoughts   in    1742.     From  this  time  blank  verse 
grew  in  favour  with  the  more  imaginative  writers, 
and  with  its  revival  came  the  revival  of  the  sonnet 
and  some  of  the  earlier  English  lyrical  measures. 
But  the  reappearance  of  the  Spenserian  stanza  as  a 
popular  form  is  a  more  important  indication  of  the 
change  in  taste  than  any  other,  and  for  this  reason, 
that  Spenser  was  looked  upon  by  the  orthodox  in 
matters  literary  during  the  eighteenth  century  as 
par  eoccellence   the  representative  of   the   extrava- 
gant and  wild,  of  the  Gothic  in  poetry,  an  epitome 
of  the  qualities  to  be  repudiated  by  the  lovers  of 
true  excellence.     V\^hen  moved  to  praise  Spenser  or 
Shakespeare,  the  critic  had  to  vindicate  his  possession 
of  good  taste  by  reservations,  as  did  Addison : — 

'  Old  Spenser  next^  warmed  with  poetic  rage. 
In  ancient  tales  amused  a  harharous  aye ; 
An  age  that  yet  uncultivate  and  rude. 
Where'er  the  poet's  fancy  led,  pursued 


^  Dedicatory  Epistle  to  The  Rival  Ladies,  1664. 
186 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

Through  pathless  fields,  and  unfrequented  floods. 
To  dens  of  dragons  and  enchanted  woods. 
But  now  the  mystic  tale  that  pleased  of  yore 
Can  charm  an  understanding  age  no  more.' 

What  illumination  there  is  in  the  complacent 
phrase, 'an  understanding  age'!  Addison's  diagnosis 
of  the  character  of  his  times  was  excellent,  but  his 
range  of  vision  did  not  permit  him  to  foresee  that 
the  protest  of  the  future  would  be  raised  against 
the  limitations  his  words  unconsciously  announce. 
Time  has  imported  a  similar  irony  into  the  remark 
of  John  Hughes,  an  early  eighteenth-century  editor 
of  Spenser — 'To  compare  the  Faerie  Queene  with 
the  models  of  antiquity  w^ould  be  like  drawing 
a  parallel  between  the  Roman  and  the  Gothic 
architecture."* 

A  number  of  Spenserian  imitations  nevertheless 
appeared  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  from  1725 
to  1750  the  Spenserian  heresy  made  considerable 
progress.  Thomson,  by  his  Castle  of  Indolence 
(1748),  increased  his  claim  to  attention  as  a  fore- 
runner of  the  revolution,  more  especially  as  he 
exhibited  traces  of  true  romantic  feeling,  and  was 
not  merely  engaged,  as  were  the  majority  of  the 
revivers  of  the  earlier  verse  forms,  in  pouring  the  old 
wine  of  conventional  sentiment  into  the  new  bottles 
of  resuscitated  metres.  In  1757  Dr.  Johnson,  the 
guardian  of  the  sacred  Augustan  tradition,  became 

187 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

alarmed.  The  imitators  of  Spenser  waxed  numerous, 
heresy  was  rampant,  and  the  champion  of  orthodoxy 
strode  into  the  arena.  In  the  Ramble?'  of  May  14, 
1757,  he  wrote :  'The  imitation  of  Spenser  by  the 
influence  of  some  men  of  learning  and  genius  seems 
likely  to  gain  upon  the  age.'  '  His  style  was  in  his 
own  time  allowed  to  be  vicious.  .  .  .  His  stanza 
is  at  once  difficult  and  unpleasing ;  tiresome  to  the 
ear  by  its  monotony,  and  to  the  attention  by  its 
length.'  'The  style  of  Spenser  might  by  long 
labour  be  justly  copied  ;  but  life  is  surely  given 
us  for  higher  purposes  than  to  gather  what 
our  ancestors  have  thrown  away,  and  to  learn 
what  is  of  no  value,  but  because  it  has  been 
forgotten.' 

One  can  barely  imagine  a  literary  conservatism 
more  complete  than  that  of  Johnson  ;  with  Pope 
the  end  of  the  w^orld  had  come,  all  things  were  con- 
summated. 'By  perusing  the  works  of  Dryden, 
Pope  discovered  the  most  perfect  fabric  of  English 
verse,  and  habituated  himself  to  that  only  which  he 
found  the  best  ;  in  consequence  of  which  restraint 
his  poetry  has  been  censured  as  too  uniformly 
musical,  and  as  glutting  the  ear  with  unvaried 
sweetness.  .  .  .  New  sentiments  and  new  images 
others  may  produce;  but  to  attempt  any  further 
improvement  in  versification  will  be  dangerous. 
Art  and  diligence  have  now  done  their  best,  and 

i88 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

what  shall  be  added  will  be  the  effort  of  tedious  toil 
and  needless  curiosity.' 

The  imitations  of  Spenser  herald  the  approaching 
change  in  literary  fashion,  but  it  is  noteworthy  that 
the  poets  who  did  the  best  service  in  the  cause  of 
Romanticism  v.ere  rather  students  in  the  school  of 
Milton  than  of  Spenser,  a  proof  that  it  was  not 
against  classic  qualities  but  against  the  poetry 
of  mere  intelligence  that  the  revolt  was  directed. 
Milton  was  a  better  scholar  than  either  Pope  or 
Dryden,  he  modelled  his  great  epics  upon  the  works 
of  the  ancient  poets  :  his  Samson  Agon'istes  is  the 
best  example  of  a  drama  in  the  Attic  manner  that 
English  literature  possesses,  his  Lycklas  is  suffused 
with  memories  of  the  Greek  ;  but  for  all  this  the 
spirit  of  his  poetry  was  felt  to  be  more  romantic 
than  classic,  as  the  eighteenth  century  understood 
those  terms.  But  Milton's  scholarship  enabled  him 
to  assimilate  the  true  spirit  of  the  ancients,  to  learn 
of  them  something  more  than  their  negative  virtues 
of  restraint  and  discipline  and  precision,  and  while 
preserving  these  virtues  to  give  at  the  same  time 
free  scope  to  his  imagination.  Though  he  lacks 
the  passion  and  emotion  which  the  later  school  of 
Romance  desired,  there  is  no  English  poetry  which 
more  powerfully  dilates  the  imagination;  and  to  his 
earlier  poems  Collins  and  Gray  were  indebted  for 
the  impulse  which  gave  them  their  place  as  leaders 

189 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

in  the  early  stages  of  the  revolutionary  movement. 
The  '  longing  for  a  shudder,"  which  is  present  in  the 
poetry  of  the  Romantic  Revival,  presents  in  an  ex- 
aggerated form  the  revolt  against  the  tyranny  of 
convention.  But  it  must  not  be  named  as  its  sole 
constituent.  A  poem  of  Warton's,  published  in 
1740,  entitled  The  Entlmtsiast ;  or  the  Lover  of 
Nature,  presents  another  aspect  of  the  new  tendency : 
the  fancy  for  wildness  or  solitude  in  landscape,  for 
woods  and  mountains,  ruined  castles  and  twilight 
groves,  such  scenes,  in  short,  as  might  feed  the 
emotions,  and  stimulate  the  imagination.  '  It  may 
certainly,"  as  Mr.  Courthope  says,  '  be  regarded  as 
the  starting-point  of  the  Romantic  Revival,  as  it 
expresses  all  that  love  of  solitude  and  that  yearning 
for  the  spirit  of  a  bygone  age  which  are  especially 
associated  with  the  genius  of  the  Romantic  school  of 
poetry."  Another  volume  of  poems,  published  in 
1746  by  Joseph  Warton,  is  avowedly  romantic  in 
character.  In  the  preface  the  author  remarks  that 
he  looks  upon  '  invention  and  imagination  to  be  the 
chief  faculties  of  a  poet,  so  he  will  be  happy  if  the 
following  odes  may  be  looked  upon  as  an  attempt 
to  bring  back  poetry  into  its  right  channel."  The 
early  poetry  of  Romanticism,  both  that  of  the 
brothers  Warton  and  their  contemporaries,  is 
characterised  by  a  strain  of  melancholy  :  a  vein  of 
sombre  reflection  runs  through  it.     Elegies  were  for 

190 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

a  time  a  favourite  form  of  composition,  and  '  grave- 
yard poetry'  was  not  a  little  appreciated.^  The 
following  from  Warton  are  characteristic  verses : — 

'  Haste  Fancy  from  tlie  scenes  of  folly 
To  meet  the  matron  Melancholy, 
Goddess  of  tlie  tearful  eye, 
That  loves  to  fold  her  arms  and  sigh  ; 
Let  us  with  silent  footsteps  go 
To  charnels  and  the  house  of  woe, 
To  Gothic  churches,  vaults  and  tombs 
Where  each  sad  night  a  virgin  comes 
With  throbhing  breast  and  faded  cheek 
Her  promised  bridegroom's  urn  to  seek.' 

But  '  the  whole  Romantic  school,"'  as  Mr.  Lowell 
wrote,  '  in  its  germ  no  doubt,  but  unmistakably 
foreshadowed,  lies  already  in  the  Ode  on  the  Super'- 
stitions  of  the  Highlands.''  This  poem,  written  by 
Collins  about  1750,  was  not  published  until  1788, 
perhaps  because  it  was  not  thought  suited  to  the 
spirit  of  the  times,  but  exhibits  even  in  its  title  the 
new  literary  attitude. — 'An  Ode  on  the  Popular 
Superstitions  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland ;  con- 
sidered as  the  subject  of  poetry .''  In  praising  the  High- 
land superstitions  as  good  subjects  for  poetry,  Collins 
thus  addresses  Home,  the  author  of  Douglas  : — 

'  Fresh  to  that  soil  thou  turn'st,  where  every  vale 
Shall  prompt  the  poet,  and  his  song  demand  ; 
To  thee  thy  copious  subjects  ne'er  shall  fail ; 
Thou  needst  but  take  thy  pencil  in  thy  hand. 
And  paint  what  all  believe,  who  own  thy  genial  land.' 

^  E.g.  Parnell's  Night- Piece  o?i  Death,  and  Blair's  Grave,  1743. 

191 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

Here  is  the  kernel  of  the  whole  matter,  the  con- 
viction that  outside  the  world  of  reality  and 
common-sense,  as  represented  in  polite  society  and 
the  opinions  of  cultivated  men,  as  limited  by  the 
current  philosophy,  were  to  be  found  subjects 
adapted  for  poetic  treatment.  About  the  time 
that  Collins  was  engaged  upon  this  poem.  Gray 
completed  his  famous  Elegy.  In  his  earliest  poems, 
he  betrays  no  trace  of  romantic  predilections,  the 
Elegy  marks  an  indeterminate  period ;  but  in  The 
Progress  of  Poetry^  1754,  and  The  Bard,  1757,  we 
see  him  well  on  his  way  towards  the  camp  of  the 
liberals,  and  in  The  Descent  of  0dm,  1761,  enrolled 
as  a  recruit  in  the  rapidly  swelling  forces  of  the 
revolution.  How  is  one  to  explain  Gray''s  con- 
version .?  It  may  be  ascribed  without  hesitation 
to  the  critical  movement,  which  accompanied  and 
supported  the  new  poetic  impulse.  In  1755 
Professor  Mallet  of  Copenhagen  published  an 
Introduction  to  the  History  erf  Denmarh',  and  in 
the  following  year  added  a  volume  upon  the 
mythology  and  poetry  of  the  Celts,  and  particularly 
of  the  ancient  Scandinavians.  This  book  marks 
the  awakening  of  the  modern  historic  sense,  the 
birth  of  European  interest  in  ancient  and  mediaeval 
history,  and  at  once  exercised  a  potent  influence 
upon  the  thought  of  the  day.  Gray  was  pro- 
foundly impressed,  and   when  in   1760  Fragments 

192 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

of  Ancient   Poetry   collected  in   the   Highlands    of 
Scotland^  and  translated  Jrom  the  Gaelic  or  Erse 
Language  ^  appeared,  his  adhesion  to  the  cause  of 
Romanticism  was  sealed.    Public  taste  was  ripe  for 
the  reception  of  the  work  of  the  antiquarian  and 
poet,  and  when  in  1765  Percy  published  his  famous 
Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry  (preceded  by  Five  Pieces 
of  Runic  Poetry  in  1763),  and  in  1770  his  transla- 
tion of  Mallet's  book,  the  popular  imagination  was 
at  once  captivated,  and  the  stream  was  soon  running 
strongly  in  favour  of  the  Gothic  barbarians.      In 
this  suddenly  awakened  interest  in  the  past  we  have 
of  course  one  of  the   chief  characteristics  of  the 
Romantic  movement.     The  intellectual  horizon  was 
immeasurably  extended,  and  as  in  the  Elizabethan 
age  the  strange  tales  brought  back  by  the  adventurers 
of  the  new  world  beyond  the  seas  at  once  aroused 
and  delighted  the  imagination,  so  these  stories  and 
ballads  of  a  past  and  forgotten  age,  the  marvels  of 
the  northern  mythologies  recovered  by  the  students 
of  antiquity,  stimulated    and    delighted  the  more 
imaginative  minds  of  the  eighteenth  century,  weary 
of  conventional  good  taste  and  common-sense.     In 
order  to  appreciate  the  electric  thrill  with  which, 
despite  the  passionate  scorn  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Mac- 
pherson's  Ossian  was  received,  it  is  only  necessary 

^  The  work  of  Macpherson,  who  followed  it  up  in  1762  and  1763 
by  translations  of  Ossian. 

N  193 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

to  read,  after  a  few  lines  of  polite  eighteenth- 
century  poetry  by  Pope  or  some  members  of  his 
school,  a  few  lines  of  its  vague  and  suggestive 
declamations : — 

<^  I  have  seen  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  were 
desolate.  The  fire  had  resounded  in  the  halls;,  and 
the  voice  of  the  people  is  heard  no  more.  The  stream 
of  Clutha  was  removed  from  its  place  by  the  fall  of 
the  walls.  The  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely  head ; 
the  moss  whistled  to  the  wind.  The  fox  looked  out 
of  the  windows;  the  rank  grass  of  the  wall  waved 
round  its  head.  Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Moina  ; 
silence  is  in  the  house  of  her  fathers.  Raise  the  song 
of  mourning,  O  bards  !  over  the  land  of  strangers.' 

After  Pope's  most  admired  epigrams, 

^  'Tis  from  high  life  high  characters  are  drawn  : 
A  saint  in  crape  is  twice  a  saint  in  lawn/ 

how  enchanting,  too,  must  have  sounded  the  antique 
vigour  of  the  ballad, 

'  The  King  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  bluid-red  wine '  ! 

Mallet's  book  on  the  Scandinavian  mythology 
represents  the  positive  side  of  the  critical  move- 
ment, while  Joseph  Warton's  Essay  on  Pope, 
published  the  year  following  (1756),  is  representative 
of  its  negative  side,  denying,  as  it  does,  to  the  Augus- 
tan poetry  the  possession  of  the  final  virtues. 

194 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

But  the  effects  of  the  revolution  in  taste  were  not 
confined  to  poetry,  or  even  to  literature  in  general. 
If  we  turn  to  Gray's  Letters  and  Journals  we  shall 
find  sentences  breathing  new  and  surprising  senti- 
ments.— 'In  our  little  journey  up  to  the  Grande 
Chartreuse,'  he   writes   to   his   friend  West,   'I  do 
not  remember  to  have  gone  ten  paces  without  an 
exclamation  that  there  was  no  restraining.     Not  a 
precipice,  not  a  torrent,  not  a  cliff,  but  is  jm'gnant 
with  religion  and  poetry:     But  if  Gray  was  one   of 
the  earliest  writers  who  discovered  that  mountains 
were  to  be  admired,  Horace  Walpole,  as  has  been 
frequently   noted,   was    'almost    the   first   modern 
Englishman   who    found    out   that    our   cathedrals 
were  really  beautiful.'    During  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury the  classical  style  in  architecture  completely 
predominated.     Early  in  the  century  the  palaces  of 
Blenheim  and  Castle   Howard  were  erected  in   it, 
and  the  preference  gradually  led  to  its  adoption  for 
all  classes  of  buildings,  public  or  domestic.     Like 
Percy,  Walpole    was   an    enthusiastic  antiquarian, 
and  in  1747  made  the  first  attempt  in  England  to 
revive  the  Gothic  style.     The  sham  battlements  of 
the  famous  '  Gothic  castle,'  Strawberry  Hill,  are  a 
landmark  in  connection  with  the  birth  of  modern 
historical  and  antiquarian  interest.     But  in  1764 
Walpole  erected  still  another  Gothic  buildinir  in  his 
novel  The  Castle  of  Otranto,  which,  although  like 

195 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

its  predecessor  a  sham  structure,  supplied  to  the 
novel  some  of  the  modern  ingredients  wanting  in 
the  fiction  of  Defoe.  Defoe  belonged  to  the  age  of 
prose  :  a  journalist  who  was  in  the  habit  of  report- 
ing daily  occurrences,  and  whose  stories  are  merely 
such  reports,  differing  from  those  of  the  newspaper 
only  in  this,  that  they  are  occurrences  that  had  not 
occurred.  In  his  narratives  there  is  a  marked  absence 
of  poetry  and  sentiment ;  nor  does  Pope  in  his  Essay 
on  Man  better  display  the  spirit  of  the  eighteenth 
century  than  Defoe  in  Robinson  Crusoe.  To  the 
novel  AValpole  added  the  vein  of  heightened  emotion 
desired  by  the  time,  and  the  element  of  mystery  in 
character  and  situation.  The  host  of  his  imitators 
proclaims  the  age  hungry  for  sensation.  In  Miss 
Clara  Reeve's  Old  English  Ba?'o?i,  Beckford's  Vathek, 
Mrs.  RadclifFe's  Sicilian  Romance  and  The  Mys- 
teries of  Udolpho,  and  in  Lewis''s  Monk,  the  interest 
is  of  an  intense  and  agitating  character,  the  scenery 
wild  and  suggestive,  the  characters  strange,  violent, 
supernatural.  The  school  of  fiction  which  grew 
immediately  out  of  the  Romantic  Revival  represents 
its  features  in  an  exaggerated  form  ;  true  and  false 
Romanticism  were  not  yet  distinguished.  The 
appetite  was  yet  too  strong  to  discriminate,  or  to 
discern  in  Strawberry  Hill,  Ossian,  or  The  Castle  of 
Otranto,  the  unreal  and  the  counterfeit  element. 
At  the   head   of  another  group   of  writers  who 

196 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

assisted  in  the  emancipation  of  the  natural  life  of 
the  feelings  stands  the  author  of  Pamela,  and 
Clarissa  Harlowe,  published  in  1748.  llichardson''s 
'  Romances  of  the  heart  "*  heralded  one  aspect  of  the 
revolt  against  the  supremacy  of  the  intelligence,  and 
not  only  vindicated  the  right  of  the  emotions  to 
legitimate  expression,  but  assigned  to  them  their 
natural  place  as  guides  to  conduct  and  ministers  to 
deliijht.  With  Richardson  the  word  '  sentimental,' 
now  fallen  to  baser  uses,  meant  little  more  than  the 
cultivation  of  the  feelings.  But  with  Sterne,  senti- 
mentalism  begins  to  run  to  waste,  and  becomes  a 
prevailing  mood  which  regards  emotion  as  an  end 
in  itself,  nor  cares  to  determine  its  appropriate 
occasions  or  objects.  In  Henry  Mackenzie''s  Man 
qf  Feeling,  published  in  1771,  we  reach  the  limits 
of  which  this  style  is  capable,  we  assist  at  the  car- 
nival of  the  sentiments,  we  learn  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  luxury  in  grief.  But  while  Sterne  took 
advantage  of  the  emotional  necessities  of  the  time 
to  trick  his  readers  into  tears,  a  nobler  use  of  its 
susceptibilities  was  made  by  Wesley.  A  frank 
supernaturalist,  Wesley's  triumph  by  an  appeal 
rather  to  the  emotions  than  to  the  reason,  affords 
an  important  clue  to  the  social  and  moral  needs  of 
his  generation.  The  Romantic  movement,  indeed, 
regarded  in  all  its  bearings,  exhibits  the  develop- 
ment of  the  humanitarian  out  of  the  political  ideal, 

197 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

a  cause  in  which  the  notion  of  a  return  to  nature, 
promulgated  by  Rousseau,  who  visited  England  in 
1766,  did  so  great  a  service.     With  that  herald  of 
the  Revolution  a  return  to  nature   was   a  return 
to  a  less  elaborately  organised,  a  simpler  political 
system,  where  kings    and    priests    could    imprison 
neither  the  intellects  nor  the  sentiments  of  men. 
But  the  theories  of  fraternity  and  equality  which 
inflamed  the  enthusiasm  of  France  made  no  impres- 
sion upon  the  colder-spirited  islanders.     Abstract 
doctrines  sown  in  English  fields  send  up  no  terrible 
crop  of  armed  men.    Later  in  the  century,  W^illiam 
Blake,  born  in  1757,  stood  out  boldly  in  the  great 
cause  of  liberty  and  democratic  ideals.    But  Blake  as 
artist  and  poet  represents  a  later  stage  in  the  develop- 
ment of  English  thought.    From  boyhood  a  dreamy 
mystic  to  whom  visions  of  angels  were  familiar,  his 
best  artistic  work  recalls  that  of  Dlirer   and   the 
mediaeval  painters ;  throughout  life  he  believed  him- 
self to  be  guided  by  ministers  from   the  spiritual 
world,  and  he  accounts  for  the  greater  part  of  his 
literary  work  as  communicated  to  him  by  the  spirit 
of  a  dead  brother.     Blake"'s  singular  independence  of 
prevailing  fashion,  literary  and   artistic,  is  hardly 
matched  in  the  history  of  our  literature.     Both  as 
artist  and  as  poet  he  expresses  the  life  of  a  later 
generation,  nourished   on   a  more    spiritual   philo- 
sophy, a  nobler  political  and  social  creed,  a  poetry 

198 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

emancipated  from  the  influences  of  a  mechanic 
age. 

No  historian  of  the  Romantic  Revival  could  over- 
look the  past  played  by  the  writers,  like  Warton  and 
Hurd,  who  contributed  to  the  liberalisation  of  criti- 
cism. Warton's  Observations  on  the  Faerie  Queene 
(1753),  and  Kurd's  Letters  on  Chivalry  and  Romance, 
display  the  conscious  side  of  a  movement  which  was 
in  the  main  unconscious,  or  rather  they  display  the 
effort  made  by  the  analytical  minds  to  understand 
and  explain  to  themselves  what  the  majority  were 
content  to  feel.  Yet  it  was  not  from  England  that 
the  ideals  of  a  criticism  which  should  form  part  of 
a  universal  philosophy  first  emanated  :  the  shaping 
ideas  of  the  future  issued  from  Germanv,  and  their 
history  in  this  country  belongs  to  the  early  years 
of  the  present  century.  Upon  the  later  history  of 
Romanticism  in  England,  of  its  association  with 
revolutionary  and  democratic  ideals,  I  do  not  pro- 
pose to  enter ;  that  later  history,  is  it  not  written 
large  that  all  may  read  in  the  poetry  of  Shelley  and 
of  Scott,  of  Wordsworth  and  of  Coleridge  and  of 
Keats,  is  it  not  the  history  of  English  literature 
and  art  in  the  nineteenth  century  ? 

The  early  Romanticists  had  a  mission  to  fulfil,  and 
they  fulfilled  it  by  saying  in  effect  to  the  generation 
to  which  they  belonged,  in  the  words  of  Hamlet  to 
Horatio, '  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth 

199 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.'  It  sounded 
the  first  few  notes  of  a  music  which  later  became 
orchestral — the  music  of  passion  and  of  triumph,  of 
passion  for  humanity  in  its  long  upward  struggle, 
and  of  the  emancipated  imagination  which  frames 
for  humanity  ever  new  ideals.  It  opened  out  of  a 
conventional  age  a  little  wicket-gate  into  a  world 
outside  that  of  our  own  immediate  and  circum- 
scribed experience,  into  a  world  that  we  cannot 
enter  unless  imagination  and  faith  take  us  by  the 
hand  and  make  us  free  of  its  mysteries,  its  aspira- 
tions, its  hopes,  its  sympathies,  and  its  thoughts 
'  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears."* 

If  we  would  sum  up  our  impressions  we  may  think 
of  the  Romantic  Revival  as  the  revolt  of  the  natural 
man  against  the  artificial,  the  revolt  of  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  feelings  against  the  insolent  domination 
of  the  intelliocence  in  the  literature  of  England  from 
Dryden  to  Johnson.  It  displays  itself  at  first  by  a 
renewed  interest  in  the  works  of  the  older  English 
writers,  turning  from  French  models  to  the  imitation 
of  their  works,  and  adopting  their  metrical  forms 
in  the  place  of  the  heroic  couplet  almost  exclusively 
employed  by  the  Augustan  poets.  It  displays  itself 
later  by  a  revival  of  taste  for  anything  mediaeval, 
for  Gothic  in  preference  to  classical  architecture, 
by  its  interest  in  ancient  ballad  poetry,  fostered 
by  Percy's  Reliques  and   similar  collections,  by  its 

200 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

interest  in  the  early  history,  the  sagas  and  pictur- 
esque mythology  of  the  Scandinavian  and  of  the 
Celtic  races,  fostered  by  various  antiquarian  works 
and  by  the  poems  of  Ossian.  It  displays  itself 
by  a  renewed  feeling  for  external  nature,  more  es- 
pecially in  the  wilder  and  more  rugged  types  of 
scenery  which  most  stimulate  the  imagination  and 
the  emotions.  It  displays  itself  by  the  appearance 
of  a  school  of  critics,  a  school  of  poets,  a  school  of 
Romance  writers,  a  school  of  novelists,  expressing 
unconsciously  or  avowedly  these  predilections. 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  any  classification  of 
latter-day  writers  which  should  assign  them  places 
in  opposing  camps.  The  wizard  stream  of  romance 
has  flowed  into  the  sacred  stream  of  poetry.  It  is 
not  the  poetry  that  can  be  most  unreservedly  la- 
belled Romantic  that  we  find  irresistible,  but  that 
poetry  which  is  above  classification,  which,  while  it 
excludes  nothing  that  touches  humanity  from  its 
world  of  subjects,  displays  in  its  expression  the 
exactness,  the  dignity,  the  composure,  the  restraint 
that  we  associate  with  Sophocles  or  Lucretius,  while 
at  its  heart  burns  the  passion  and  the  fire  of  Dante 
or  of  Burns.  That  strain  is  sometimes  heard  in  the 
work  of  the  Romanticists,  sometimes  in  the  work  of 
the  writers  we  name  classical ;  for  it  is  simply  the 
strain  of  poetry  at  its  highest  reach,  the  poetry  that 
never  fails  to  tranquillise  or  satisfy,  to  whose  appeal 

201 


THE  ROMANTIC  REVIVAL 

in  any  preoccupation  we  can  never  be  blind  or  deaf. 
Here  we  may  surrender  ourselves  to  the  influences 
that  belong  to  the  divine  beauty  that  ever  brings 
consolation  if  it  brings  sadness,  and  can  fortify  the 
heart  in  the  presence  of  Tragedy. 


202 


XaXeTra  ra  Koka 

The   success   of    a   college   like   this   is   sufficient 
proof,  if  indeed  any  proof  were  required,  that  the 
English  mind  of  to-day  is  keenly  alive  to  the  im- 
portant truth  that  knowledge  is  power,  is  keenly 
alive  to  the  practical  utility  of  knowledge.     It  can 
hardly,  I  think,  be  said  that  there  is  a  present  need 
for  any  of  us  to  be  reminded  of  the  value  of  know- 
ledge, of  the  indispensable  part  it  plays  in  social 
and  individual  welfare:    we  are  already  convinced 
of  it.     We    are    indeed   accustomed  daily  to  con- 
gratulate ourselves  on  the  marvellous  widening  of 
the  horizon  of  what  is  known,  and  on  the  remark- 
able spread  of  general  and  even  special  information 
among  the  people.     We  have  been  led,  too,  by  the 
writers   and    speakers    upon   education,   and    upon 
social,  economic,  and  kindred  questions  for  many 
years  past,  to  expect  great  things  from  this  increase, 
and  from  this  spread  of  knowledge.     Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer    and    other   scientific    writers   have   raised 

1  An  Address  delivered  at  the  opening  of  the  Session  1894-95, 
in  Mason  College,  Birmingham. 

20^ 


our  expectations  by  their  splendid  confidence  in 
the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  especially  a  knowledge 
of  science,  and  have  taught  us  to  believe  that 
ignorance  is  the  only  serious  barrier  between  the 
present  condition  of  society  and  a  veritable  Utopia. 
We  are  all  impressed  by  this  view  of  the  latter-day 
teachers,  a  great  deal  can  be  said  for  it ;  and  yet 
some  of  us  are  forced  to  confess  that  we  cannot 
share  their  confidence ;  some  of  us,  perhaps  because 
we  are  by  nature  of  less  sanguine  temperament,  are 
disappointed,  and  are  forced  to  confess  our  dis- 
appointment. The  good  seed  has  been  diligently 
sown,  but  the  harvest  has  not  realised  our  expecta- 
tions, nor  is  there  any  assurance  that  the  future 
will  realise  them.  We  put  our  trust  in  education, 
and  we  have  not  found  in  it,  at  least  in  the  accepted 
methods  of  education,  the  sovereign  remedy  for  the 
ills  of  society.  That  many  and  capital  results 
have  followed  the  sowing  of  the  seed  it  would  be 
idle  to  deny;  capital  results  are  apparent.  But 
there  is  none  the  less  present  with  some  of  us  a 
disheartening  sense  that  all  is  not  well;  that  the 
progress  we  have  made,  though  valuable,  is  not  of 
the  best  kind ;  that  we  have  not  followed  the  vera 
lux,  rather  allowed  ourselves  to  be  led  by  a  bright 
but  erring  star.  It  suffices  not  that  we  have  learned 
to  have  our  wits  about  us,  that  an  edge  has  been 
put  upon  many  of  our  mental  faculties,  that  vast 

204 


continents  have  been  added  to  man's  intellectual 
empire.  Even  these  gains  do  not  suffice ;  some  of 
us  remain  unsatisfied,  and  go  about  with  the  query 
on  our  lips,  '  How  comes  it  that  we  see  knowledge 
wide,  and  widening,  a  multiplication  of  the  arts 
and  sciences  side  by  side  with  so  much  that  offends 
the  eye,  and  offends  the  reason,  and  offends  the 
heart  in  our  modern  civilisation  ? '  The  remedy  in 
which  we  trusted  has  not  penetrated  deep  enough ; 
the  changes  that  have  been  brought  about  are 
surface  changes ;  and  so  it  comes  that  our  con- 
fidence in  the  absolute  efficacy  of  know^ledge  has 
been  shaken,  and  we  are  now  suffering  disillusion. 
The  results,  too,  even  in  the  cases  that  we  should 
imagine  would  display  this  efficacy  most  triumph- 
antly, often  dishearten  us  still  further.  How  dry 
and  hard,  how  socially  valueless,  how  intellectually 
uninteresting,  how  spiritually  barren  even  the 
scholar  or  the  man  of  science  too  frequently 
becomes :  so  much  so,  that  in  moments  of  despon- 
dency one  is  inclined  to  say  hastily  that  education 
is  a  failure,  that  human  nature  is  not  affected  by  it, 
or  to  exclaim,  '  How  cheap  a  thing  is  scholarship 
when  weighed  in  the  scales  with  pure  humanity, 
with  magnanimity,  with  moral  breadth,  depth,  and 
simplicity ! '  Education  is  not  indeed  a  failure, 
human  nature  is  disciplined,  armed,  and  inspired 
by  it,  if  it  be  education  of  the  right  stamp,  but 

205 


■^okeTTa  ra  Kokd 

we  are  suffering  disillusion  as  regards  the  absolute 
efficacy  of  knowledge.  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  and 
the  writers  upon  education  no  longer  inspire  us 
with  their  confidence.  And  it  seems  probable  that 
we  shall  be  still  further  disillusioned,  and  this 
time  more  seriously,  not  merely  as  regards  know- 
ledge, but  even  the  intellectual  powers  which  it 
nourishes ;  for  in  a  recent  and  able  work,  Mr. 
Kidd's  Social  Evolution,  dealing  with  the  largest 
social  problems,  our  intellectual  supremacy,  the 
intellectual  supremacy  of  the  modern  world  and  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  is  very  strictly  questioned. 
It  appears  that  we  are  not  nearly  so  clever  as  we 
had  imagined  ourselves,  that  the  marvellous  ac- 
complishments of  modern  civilisation,  upon  which 
we  rest  our  claims  of  intellectual  pre-eminence,  are 
due  to  small  accumulations  of  knowledge  slowly 
and  painfully  added  by  many  minds  through  an 
indefinite  number  of  generations,  and  that  these 
minds  have  not  been  at  all  separated  from  the 
general  average,  or  even  from  the  minds  of  other 
races  of  lower  social  development,  by  any  great 
intellectual  interval.  And  moreover,  it  is  said, 
and  excellent  reasons  advanced  in  support  of  the 
statement,  that  it  is  to  ethical  and  religious,  and 
not  at  all  to  intellectual  qualities,  that  the  pro- 
gress of  the  race  must  be  ascribed.  Assuredly 
knowledge  is  not  everything :  it  is  not  everything 

206 


to  have  our  wits  about  us,  to  have  great  stores  of 
useful  information,  to  have  an  edge  on  the  mental 
faculties.  There  are  other,  and  perhaps  better 
things,  of  which  our  methods  of  education  take 
little  or  no  account.  Our  methods  of  education 
take  account  of  knowledge,  and  of  the  training  of 
certain  useful  intellectual  faculties,  for  these  things 
have  a  definite  market  value.  A  career  is  nowa- 
days open  to  a  well-equipped  mind,  as  in  old  days 
a  career  was  open  to  a  sharp  sword  and  dexterity 
in  wielding  it,  and  we  are  thus  led  to  high  estimates 
of  the  value  of  knowledge  and  mental  dexterity. 
People  are  willing  to  pay  for  these  things,  and  we 
address  ourselves  in  our  schools  and  colles^es  and 
universities  to  the  task  of  imparting  knowledge 
that  possesses  a  market  value,  and  training  the 
faculties  that  command  success. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  am  here  misrepresenting 
the  methods  of  education  we  adopt  as  a  nation, 
and  I  am  anxious,  since  the  privilege  has  been 
granted  me  of  addressing  you  on  some  subject 
appropriate  to  the  place  in  which  we  are  met,  I  am 
anxious  to  ask  whether  we  do  right  in  pursuing 
exclusively  these  methods,  in  prizing  so  highly 
knowledge  and  mental  dexterity ;  and  whether  we 
might  not  find  ourselves  more  nearly  right  if  we 
w^ere  to  make  certain  other  powers  and  attainments 
the  measure  of  perfection,  if  we  were  to  recognise 

207 


;)(aX€7ra  tol  Ka\d 

how  much  of  man''s  life  falls  outside  of  the  intel- 
lectual sphere,  and  if  in  our  methods  of  education 
we  were  to  take  into  serious  account  the  whole, 
and  not  a  part  only,  of  human  nature  ;  if,  in  short, 
we  were  to  recognise  what  I  may  speak  of  as  the 
sovereignty  of  the  heart,  as  well  as  the  sovereignty 
of  the  head. 

I  am  very  far  indeed  from  suggesting  that  it  is 
not  an  honourable  and  fitting  thing  that  our  educa- 
tion should  be  made  practical  and  possess  a  market 
value,  but  there  are  two  things  we  must  look  to. 
We  must  see  to  it  that  our  education  shall  result 
in  real  and  enduring  gain  to  the  individual,  and  in 
real  and  enduring  service  to  society.  For  it  is  not 
enouffh — it  is  not  even  wise — to  arm  the  individual 
with  weapons  for  his  personal  aggrandisement  if 
you  do  not  at  the  same  time  inspire  him  with  an 
honourable  zeal  for  public  ends.  Education  for  the 
people  will  not  advantage  society,  it  will  not  advan- 
tage the  world,  if  it  be  not  accompanied,  as  is  the 
discipline  and  skill  of  the  soldier,  with  the  spirit  of 
loyal  attachment  to  the  honour  and  fortune  of  the 
state.  A  diifusion  of  knowledge  there  is  that  can 
serve  the  community.  It  is  knowledge  that  belongs 
to  a  man  with  catholic  aims,  a  knowledge  that  clears 
the  mental  vision,  braces  the  judgment,  but  also 
broadens  the  imagination  and  the  sympathies,  and 
thus  assists  in  the  realisation  of  the  soul. 

208 


^aXcTTa  TO.   Ka\d 

The  late  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold,  in  pursuing  a 
parallel  line  of  thought  in  one  of  his  essays,  quotes 
a  sentence  from  Plato  about  this  matter  of  educa- 
tion. '  An  intelligent  man,'  Plato  says,  '  will  set 
store  by  those  studies  which  result  in  his  soul 
attaining  soberness,  righteousness,  and  wisdom, 
and  will  count  the  others  of  less  value.'  This  talk 
of  the  soul,  and  of  soberness,  righteousness,  and 
wisdom,  in  connection  with  education,  is,  in  modern 
ears,  unfamihar  and  startling.  Of  the  soul  we 
hear  little  in  these  days,  even  in  theories  of  educa- 
tion ;  it  is  customary  to  leave  affairs  of  the  soul 
exclusively  to  the  theologians,  and  perhaps  it  is 
not  altogether  a  matter  for  regret  that  it  has 
escaped  the  notice  of  i\Ir.  Herbert  Spencer  in  his 
book  on  education.  I  should  like,  indeed,  to  follow 
out  the  line  of  thought  as  suggested  here,  but  the 
soul  is  to-day  so  discredited  by  many  accurately 
informed  authors,  who  know  all  about  the  subjects 
upon  which  they  write,  as  for  example  Mr.  Grant 
Allen,  the  soul  is  so  discredited  by  these  brilliant 
and  trustworthy  writers,  that  one  has  some  diffidence 
in  speaking  of  it,  even  on  the  authority  of  Plato, 
and  for  this  reason  I  shall  use  the  word  '  heart '  in 
the  phrase  you  have  already  heard,  the  sovereignty 
of  the  head,  the  sovereignty  of  the  heart.  I  mean 
by  this  phrase  to  express  the  dual  nature  of  man  ; 
a  dual  nature  of  which,  if  they  are  to  be  efficient,  if 
o  209 


-^akena  tol  koKol 

they  are  to  be  satisfying,  our  methods  of  education 
must  take  note.  For  the  little  kingdom  of  man, 
like  the  Lacedaemonian  state  of  old,  is  a  city  of  two 
kings.  The  kingship  does  not  belong  to  the  head 
alone,  nor  to  the  heart  alone.  We  are  not  governed 
by  thoughts,  but  by  thoughts,  and  instincts,  and 
feelings,  and  affections.  To  take  full  account  of 
the  constitution  of  our  natures  is  to  take  the  first 
step  towards  wisely  ordered  life.  To  frame  our 
methods  of  education  so  that  the  training,  the 
cultivation  given  in  our  schools  and  colleges  may 
help  us  towards  the  realisation  of  the  best  that  is 
in  us,  this  is  the  problem  we  have  to  face.  But 
the  best  that  is  in  us  includes  much  more  than  a 
capacity  for  absorbing  vast  stores  of  useful  informa- 
tion, and  a  capacity  for  acquiring  admirable  mental 
dexterity.  Our  methods,  taking  no  account  of  the 
other  powers  we  possess,  not  recognising  the  dual 
sovereignty  to  which  each  of  us  owes  allegiance, 
the  sovereignty  of  the  head,  the  sovereignty  of  the 
heart,  our  methods  of  education  are  narrow  and 
faulty. 

I  stand,  indeed,  upon  a  famous  battlefield  of  con- 
troversy, but  to  me  it  seems  clear  at  all  events  that 
of  the  various  needs,  instincts,  and  powers  of  man, 
we  are  to-day  losing  sight  of  and  neglecting  the 
more  pressing,  the  more  serviceable,  whether  for 
the  individual  or  society.     What  we  need  to-day, 

210 


;)(aXe7ra  ret   /caXa 

what  we  desire  as  a  result  of  education,  is  not  so 
much  knowledge  and  mental  dexterity,  we  want  a 
sane  mental  attitude,  we  want  sanity  and  serenity, 
we  want  temper.  What  I  wish  to  know  about  the 
man  with  whom  I  am  to  associate  is  his  mental 
attitude,  his  temper.  I  am  not  so  much  concerned 
with,  I  do  not  greatly  care  to  know  the  number  of 
the  languages  he  has  acquired,  the  number  of  the 
sciences  of  which  he  is  master.  These  acquisitions 
on  the  part  of  an  individual  may  result  in  little  vital 
refinement,  in  little  advantage  to  society.  They 
may  be  a  source  of  personal  satisfaction,  they  may 
also  be  a  source  of  personal  gain,  but  the  possessor 
of  them  is  not  always  a  good  citizen,  a  sure  thinker, 
a  man  whose  companionship  is  profitable  and  pleas- 
ing. And  again,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  every 
man  to  become  a  scholar.  To  become  a  scholar 
one  must  spend  one's  life  with  books,  and  that  is 
a  life,  not  without  disadvantages,  reserved  for  the 
few.  But  it  is  in  every  man's  power  to  become  a 
good  citizen,  an  agreeable  companion,  to  cultivate 
breadth  of  judgment,  cheerfulness  and  serenity  of 
temper,  to  desire  and  study  to  obtain  moral  and 
intellectual  dignity.  And  not  only  because  all 
men  cannot  be  scholars,  cannot  indulgre  in  what 
Herder  called  'the  luxury  of  knowledge,'  but  for 
many  other  reasons  also;  in  the  education  of  the 
citizen    we    look    to    social  and    ethical    qualities, 

211 


the  qualities  that  I  have  tried  to  sum  up  as  repre- 
sented by  the  phrase,  the  sovereignty  of  the  heart. 
Mental  freedom  and  receptiveness,  moral  breadth 
and  sincerity,  the  interdependence  of  the  mental 
and  moral  faculties  recognised,  these  are  our  needs ; 
or  in  other  words,  that  there  is  no  vital  refinement 
without  character,  this  is  the  important  truth  for 
us  to  realise.  For  'the  moral,"  as  Emerson  says, 
'must  be  the  measure  of  health.  If  your  eye  is 
on  the  eternal  your  intellect  will  grow,  and  your 
opinions  and  actions  will  have  a  beauty  which-  no 
learning  or  combined  advantages  of  other  men  can 
rival."  Or  to  express  it  in  Plato's  words :  '  In  the 
world  of  knowledge  the  idea  of  good  appears  last 
of  all,  and  is  seen  only  with  an  effort ;  and  when 
seen  it  is  also  inferred  to  be  the  universal  author  of 
all  things  beautiful  and  right,  parent  of  light  and 
of  the  lord  of  light  in  this  world,  and  the  source  of 
truth  and  reason  in  the  other ;  and  is  the  power 
upon  which  he  who  would  act  rationally,  either  in 
public  or  private  life,  must  have  his  eye  fixed.' 

A  recognition,  then,  of  the  dual  sovereignty 
under  which  we  must  live — the  sovereignty  of  the 
head,  the  sovereignty  of  the  heart — will  assist  us  as 
individuals,  will  assist  us  as  a  nation,  in  pushing 
forward  the  progress  of  the  world,  and  hastening 
whatever  of  good  the  future  holds  for  man.  And 
with  quiet  minds  we  may  contemplate  and  await 

212 


the  future.     The  course  of  the  world  has  not  yet 
proved  cleverness   better  than   wisdom,  and   upon 
the   brow   of  Justice  the   crown   is   still  inviolate. 
However  long  one  listens  to  the  voices  that  praise 
success   on   lower    planes    one    is    not    persuaded. 
There  is  no  authority  in  these  voices,  and  the  ear 
of  mankind  is  attune  to  higher  strains.     And  so  it 
is  that  we  demand  more  of  ourselves,  and  seek  after 
the  best  things,  and  are  not  satisfied  with  know- 
ledge and  mental  dexterity.     But  our  methods  of 
education  have  set  these  up  as  standards  of  attain- 
ment, and  it  is  a  noticeable  fact  that  to  improve 
the  standard,  to  raise  it,  our  writers  on  education 
and   our   university  men    can   think    of  no   other 
expedient  than  simply  to  increase  the  amount  of 
knowledge    required,    and    to    make    examinations, 
which  are  the  recognised  test  of  progress  in  educa- 
tion, more  difficult.     And  we  go  on  increasing  the 
amount  of  knowledge  required  in  the  apj^lication 
of  our  customary  tests,  until  it  is  quite  marvellous 
how   much  the  brain  of  very  average  intelligence, 
skilfully  treated,   will  hold,   and    also   quite    mar- 
vellous how  indifferent  the  power  of  thought,  and 
how  slight  the  vital  refinement  that  are  the  result. 
And  thus  it  seems  as  if  we  were  almost  at  a  stand- 
still, not  knowing  where  to  turn  in  order  to  widen 
our  conception  of  a  liberal  education,  and  reduced 
to  continue  mechanically  raising  the  standard,  as  it 

213 


is  called,  by  demanding  more  and  more  information 
and  greater  mental  readiness.  But  there  are  many 
of  us  to  be  reckoned  with  who  cannot  admit  that 
this  is  in  any  acceptable  sense  a  raising  of  the 
standard,  for  truly  to  do  so  involves  much  that 
is  not  thought  of  in  this  process.  It  involves  a 
realisation  of  powers  in  ourselves  besides  memory, 
or  even  high  intelligence,  powers  of  imagination, 
and  conduct,  and  feeling,  and  sympathy;  it  in- 
volves a  recoojnition  of  how  much  of  Hfe  lies 
outside  the  sphere  of  pure  intellect ;  it  involves 
other  measures  of  attainment  than  those  furnished 
by  examinations,  and  honour  given  to  different 
types  of  character  from  those  to  which  the  crowd 
does  homage.  The  utilitarian  view  of  education, 
making:  livelihood  more  than  life,  which  has  some- 
how  mastered  us,  is  fatal  to  that  ideal  of  it  which 
includes  finer  moral  feeling,  a  keener  sensitiveness 
to  beaut V,  a  nobler  scale  of  ambition,  a  choicer 
growth  of  affections.  Breadth,  lucidity,  insight, 
sincerity,  harmony,  tranquillity,  amiableness,  mag- 
nanimity— these  are  some  of  the  words  I  should 
like  to  have  added  to  the  vocabulary  used  by  our 
writers  and  speakers  on  education.  These  words 
carry  with  them  a  larger  conception  of  human  life, 
a  deeper  sense  of  its  meaning  and  dignity,  a  deeper 
sense  of  beauty,  intellectual  and  moral.  How  are 
we  to  secure  in  our   methods  of  education    such 

214 


^aXeTTO,  ret  /caXa 

qualities  as  breadth,  lucidity,  insight,  sincerity, 
harmony,  tranquillity,  amiableness,  magnanimity  ? 
That  is,  of  course,  the  difficulty ;  these  qualities 
are  vastly  harder  of  attainment  than  a  goodly 
amount  of  knowledge  and  mental  readiness,  they 
dwell  in  a  region  wellnigh  inaccessible.  And 
there  is  also  the  difficulty  that  even  to  speak  of 
these  things  is  to  be  liable  to  contempt  as  un- 
practical. I  am  well  aware  how  unpractical  all 
this  must  sound,  but  fortunately  I  am  not  very 
greatly  in  awe  of  what  is  usually  called  the 
practical  view^  of  things,  though  it  is  a  hard 
matter  to  persuade  people  that  such  a  view  is  not 
necessarily  ripe  with  the  highest  wisdom.  People 
not  infrequently  cloak  their  dislike  to  ideas,  their 
incapacity  to  entertain  ideas,  by  an  insistence  upon 
this  so-called  practical  view,  which  comes  to  be,  as 
a  rule,  the  traditional,  the  easiest,  and  the  least 
complete  view,  whereas  the  only  really  practical 
view  is  that  which  takes  in  all  the  facts.  Briefly, 
I  think  we  may  say,  that  if  the  qualities  repre- 
sented by  the  words  I  have  just  used  are  desirable, 
it  is  not  open  to  us  to  speak  of  any  effort  to  attain 
them  as  unpractical ;  and  I  may  say  for  myself  that 
I  am  far,  indeed,  from  playing  with  words,  or  from 
speaking  with  any  feeling  but  one  of  grave  serious- 
ness in  this  matter.  The  sad  earnestness  of  modern 
life  forbids  trifling,  and  constrains  sincere  eflbrt  to 

215 


^aXcTTa  ra  Koka 

see  things  as  they  are,  and  to  conceive  them  as  they 
should  be. 

One  of  the  chief  complaints  made  against  higher 
education  for  the  people  is  that  it  tends  to  make 
them  dissatisfied,  discontented  with  their  place  in 
life,  and  feverishly  anxious  to  climb  to  some 
superior  social  grade.  Education  undoubtedly 
tends  to  make  people  discontented,  but  we  may 
judge  of  its  character  by  the  kind  of  discontent 
it  brings.  The  right  methods  bring  discontent 
with  ourselves  that  we  fall  so  far  short,  that 
excellence  lies  still  so  far  ahead  of  us.  Breadth, 
lucidity,  insight,  sincerity,  harmony,  tranquillity, 
graciousness,  magnanimity :  how  hard  it  is  even 
to  approach  the  possession  of  these  qualities ! 
Certainly  they  are  not  to  be  gained  in  a  day,  nor 
even  in  the  twelve  terms  of  a  university  curri- 
culum, and  we  must  be  content  if  at  the  end  of 
life  we  come  to  see  clearly  how  inestimable  they 
are,  if  we  come  to  see  that  honour  and  fortune  and 
success  are  already  his  who  has  continually  before 
his  eyes  the  vision  of  their  incomparable  beauty. 
If  now  it  were  at  all  possible  for  our  students  to 
gain  a  sight  of  these  qualities  while  pursuing  their 
studies,  we  might  still  hope  for  great  things  from 
education  ;  our  confidence  might  be  renewed. 

It  will  be  said  that  I  have  strayed  too  far  into 
the  field  of  philosophy  and  philosophic  ideals.     I 

216 


would  that  in  the  education  of  the  nation  we  might 
stray  yet  further  into  it,  and  into  the  field  also  of 
the  fine  arts.  For  philosophy  is  no  mere  academic 
study,  but  the  science  and  art  of  life  itself,  and  the 
fine  arts  do  not  bear  us  away  into  any  unreal  fairy- 
land, but  in  this  workaday  world  are  the  ministers 
of  beauty  and  of  light,  and  truths  that  we  cannot 
spare.  So  much  rests  with  our  attitude  towards 
these  and  similar  influences.  The  word  to  the  wise 
is,  what  we  seek  we  find.  These  influences  are  for 
us  exactly  what  we  make  them.  To  take  history 
for  example.  To  some  people,  said  Plunket,  the 
great  Irish  Chancellor,  history  is  an  old  almanac ; 
and  he  went  on  to  say  that  history  written  by  men 
without  literary  cultivation  was  as  unreadable  as 
an  old  almanac.  It  rests  with  ourselves  whether 
history  shall  be  an  old  almanac,  and  philosophy 
a  scholastic  exercise,  and  the  fine  arts  an  elegant 
diversion,  or  whether  we  shall  lay  them  under 
higher  contribution,  and  as  travellers  on  these 
great  highways  of  the  world's  upward  life  coming 
to  a  clearer  knowledge  of  ourselves,  a  fuller  con- 
sciousness of  our  instincts  and  needs  and  powers, 
at  length  arrive  at  our  journey's  end  with  justice 
and  truth  and  beauty  in  our  company,  and  for  our 
friends  those  who  have  loved  the  liffht. 

o 

In  the  academy  of  the  world's  past  the  student 
corrects  his  impressions  of  life  by  a  comparison  of 

217 


-^akeira  tol  Kokd 

them  with  the  impressions  of  greater  minds,  his 
ambitions  are  enlarged  and  purified  by  an  estimate 
of  the  value  of  the  ambitions  that  the  long 
centuries  have  cherished,  in  his  realisation  of  the 
world's  sorrow  his  emotions  are  deepened,  in  his 
companionship  with  its  joys  his  joys  are  increased, 
and  in  his  own  mingle  the  elements  of  universal 
thought.  There  is  no  part  of  the  majestic  order 
of  thinors,  there  are  no  harmonies  of  Nature  that 
may  not  be  shared  by  him,  and  there  abides 
continually  before  him  the  vision  of  'a  world 
unrealised."* 

The  education  we  shall  learn  to  prize  will  be 
such  as  serves  us  in  every  duty  of  life,  public  and 
private,  and  in  hours  of  reckoning  with  ourselves 
affords  us  glimpses  that  continually  restore,  en- 
courage, and  confirm.  I  should  like  myself,  did 
it  lie  in  my  power,  to  show  what  fortifying  and 
consoling  glimpses  might  be  the  reward  of  earnest 
study  in  the  school  of  letters,  for  example,  the 
subject  in  which  I  am  myself  specially  concerned. 
Almost  any  study  will,  I  believe,  if  properly 
followed,  put  an  edge  upon  the  intellect ;  but  for 
the  student  who  looks  for  more  than  this  the 
choice  is  perhaps  a  narrower  one.  For  my  own 
part,  and  you  will  allow  that  it  is  natural  in  me, 
and  so  perhaps  pardonable,  I  feel  the  influences  of 
literature  and,  let  me  add,  philosophy  very  strongly, 

2i8 


more  strongly  than  I  feel  similar  influences  from 
other  studies.  And  for  one  who  thinks  that  '  the 
whole  life  of  man  stands  in  need  of  grace  and 
harmony,"  there  can  hardly  be  a  wiser  choice 
than  literature  and  philosophy  among  the  various 
studies  to  which  a  student  may  apply  himself.^ 
Not  that  it  need  be  an  exclusive  study.  There  is 
too  much  made  of  what  is  called  the  'conflict  of 
studies  "* ;  we  cannot  affbrd  to  neglect  any  oppor- 
tunity to  enlighten  or  to  enlarge  our  minds.  No 
man,  indeed,  can  make  himself  master  of  all 
branches  of  knowledge,  or  even  of  any  one  branch ; 
but  to  profit  by  a  study  it  is  fortunately  not  im- 
perative that  it  should  be  mastered  in  its  entirety. 
You  may  make  some  profitable  acquaintance  with 
the  results  at  least  in  many  departments  of  science, 
though  your  direct  path  lies  otherwhere ;  your 
friendship  with  Plato,  or  Dante,  or  Shakespeare 
will  make  no  impossible  demand  upon  your  time, 
nor  can  it  weaken  your  grasp  in  the  region  of 
mathematics  or  geology. 

It  seems  curiously  difficult  for  the  average 
human  mind  to  entertain  more  than  one  idea  at 
a  time,  and  we  are  not  yet  safe  from  attacks  upon 
literature,  and  the  study  of  literature,  by  men  of 
science,  and  attacks  upon  science,  and  the  value  of 

^  I  should  like,  with  Professor  Dowden,  to  see  the  student  pass 
four  years  in  a  School  of  Philosophy  and  Letters. 

219 


^aXcTra  ra  Kokd 

science,  by  men  of  letters.  But  I  think  we  are  now 
nearly  safe,  and  that  in  this  college  the  English 
feeling  of  to-day  is  represented,  where  science  and 
literature  are  sworn  allies,  and  have  buried  deep 
the  weapons  of  their  former  warfare.  It  has  indeed 
frequently  been  shown  that  the  study  of  literature 
is  itself  a  science,  and  it  is  to  be  remembered  that 
in  some  sense  the  man  of  science  is  also  a  student 
of  literature,  for  he  is  a  student  of  our  most 
ancient  document.  In  its  broadest  meaning,  all 
that  is  preserved  in  writing — litera,  the  written 
or  printed  thing — includes  much  more  than  books. 
That  great  living  being,  the  world,  as  the  Stoics 
feigned  it,  wrote  its  pre-human  history  in  the  beds 
of  rivers,  in  the  hieroglyphics  of  ice-worn  or  fire- 
fused  rock,  in  the  debris  of  primaeval  forests,  and 
in  the  mammoth  skeletons  of  its  earliest  inhabitants. 
This  is  the  literature  in  which  the  geologist,  the 
palaeontologist,  is  versed.  And  even  that  god-like 
person,  the  pure  mathematician,  who  lives  upon  the 
delights  of  abstract  quantities  and  the  relations  of 
things  at  infinity,  is  a  reader  of  the  literature  of 
curves  and  angles  supplied  in  the  book  of  Nature. 

Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  a  student  is  in  quest 
of  breadth,  lucidity,  insight,  sincerity,  harmony, 
tranquillity,  graciousness,  magnanimity — shall  we 
promise  him  many  near  glimpses  of  these  in  the 
school  of  letters  ?     I  think  we  may  certainly  so 

220 


promise.  We  may  not  indeed  say  that  these 
glimpses  are  not  to  be  had  elsewhere,  we  may  even 
affirm  the  contrary,  for  there  are  many  schools  of 
intellectual,  moral,  and  social  discipline.  But  we 
may  say  that  he  will  do  well  here,  that  here 
life  may  be  strengthened,  sustained,  and  consoled, 
quickened  with  the  love  of  truth  and  the  love  of 
beauty,  and  made  bright  with  memories  of  the  best 
human  traditions.  And  though  I  have  no  right  to 
speak  upon  any  aspect  of  the  study  of  science,  I 
shall  venture  the  opinion  that  he  will  do  well  here 
also,  that  in  the  study  of  Nature  and  her  laws 
there  is  room  for  the  discipline  we  seek.  For  once 
more  it  is  what  we  seek  we  find,  and  Nature  has 
her  own  breadth,  and  sincerity,  and  harmony,  and 
tranquillity,  and  graciousness. 

'  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining. 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silvered  roll, 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 

These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be. 

In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring. 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see.' 

You  will  permit  me  in  conclusion  to  quote  some 

221 


^aXcTTa  TO.   Kokd 

words  of  my  own,  addressed  not  long  since  to 
students  of  my  own  college.  If  it  be  asked  what 
is  the  final  end  of  education,  we  may  say  that 
towards  the  effort  to  improve  our  own  selves  so 
that  we  may  the  more  effectively  assist  our  fellows, 
our  hest  guides  direct  us,  in  this  is  the  purest 
happiness  given  us  to  enjoy.  It  frees  each  day 
and  hour  of  our  little  journeying  beneath  the  sun 
from  the  sense  of  its  paltry  vanity  that  so  often 
and  so  sharply  afflicts  the  heart.  The  remem- 
brance of  that  endeavour  will  be  ours  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  future  when  our  eyes  grow  dim 
to  the  sunlight,  and  the  veil  of  Isis  is  raised  for 
each  of  us. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
TO^-^     202  Main  Library 


^ 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1-m6nth  toans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3406 

1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  t^  brInQing  the  bOoK$  to  th€  Circulation  WSk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  flate 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

m   71984 

)% 

rec'd  circ.  MAR  1 8  198 

1 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1/83         BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


®s 


